The Angel Sees, the Angel Knows
by MissGabriellaXIII
Summary: Christine's Angel of Music is a source of comfort and protection for her, but suddenly he begins to change and become obsessive and frightening to her...then she discovers that he and the Phantom are one and the same. EC, Raoul-friendly, rather dark Erik.
1. Prologue

_**A/N:**__** Hello once again! Before we start, I might as well warn you that this Erik will not be the golden god of a Sexy Scotsman. Yep, this is the Leroux/Kay Erik, so don't expect any gleaming abs and rugged good looks! This will be mostly in Christine's PoV, and it is roughly based on the Kay novel.**_

_**I have still not mysteriously acquired ownership of the Phantom of the Opera and all related characters overnight, so it remains in the possession of Leroux/Webber/Kay.**_

* * *

It was around three o'clock in the morning, I think, that I finally realised that the man I held in my arms was dead. At least, I assume I was three o'clock...it was always so impossible to tell what time of day it was in the perpetual twilight of the underground house by the lake. Only the clocks - always so carefully and precisely wound - could give any clue as to what the hour was in that other world, the world above the ground. This subterranean lair was so cut off from everything else...it did not share any laws that governed the outside world. The lair's master chose when day passed and night fell; he could control whether it be summer or winter, too, with the aid of an ingenious heating system that could revolutionise the industrial world if he only cared to share it...which he did not. It showed how reserved he was, how despicably shunned by the insufferable vanity and pride of mankind. I knew well of his secluded distancing from the pettiness of the human race, as if he was an entire new race of his own. At first I had thought this was just psychological, but the more I considered it, the clearer it became that perhaps he _was_ a strange, different and magnificently endowed creature. The power of his music - of his _voice_ alone, come to it - was surely not something a lesser mortal could achieve. His creativity was unparalleled, his sharp eye and skilful hands matchless. This was what made him greater than human...but of course, there were other things that made people consider him very much sub-human. Not only his poor face - his poor _mind_ had made him act, at times, like people expected him to: like a _beast_. His terrible rages and burning furies alone were enough to split the very ground and spill the world into the waiting flames of hell. This formidable temper, though, was very much due to the frustrations that culminated within him - frustrations that had built up for years and had no way of escaping. He was only a beast because of the vainglorious conceit of others.

I look at him now; his head is resting so very comfortably in the crook of my elbow, his poor, blighted face completely calm. His left arm is draped with a languid tenderness over my waist, and my free arm is around his scarred, emaciated chest, still holding him. His once-lustrous black hair is smooth and silky, from the long minutes I spent stroking my fingers through it. As I watch his face, I know that to anybody else it would appear as if this man had been dead for much longer than an hour. His stark-white skin, papery and almost translucent, his gaping nasal cavity and the dark rings around his eyes suggested he was a few-month-old corpse, well into the process of decomposition. But of course, I knew better; he had said his final precious words to me not even two hours ago.

I do not want to move; to move would be to admit that he is not just peacefully asleep in my arms. I want to stay here in his bed, holding him - for this is the very last time I will ever have him lying in my arms. It is one of the very last times I will be alone with him, _for the rest of my life_. That is what scares me; that no matter for how long I live, be it twenty more years or forty, I will never, ever have this opportunity again.

Oh, Erik. Look at you. You seem so relaxed and serene, lying with me in the bed that has served you as the bed you were born in, your marriage bed and now your deathbed. Your face, even without your glorious voice - that voice that shall never be heard again for all eternity - to draw the horror away from it, looks so peaceful that it is beautiful. Not beautiful as in handsome - I will not pretend that you are handsome, for you have known it is not the truth - but beautiful as in the truest, purest sense of the word. It holds something even the finest face in the world could not possess. My hand moves reluctantly, careful not to nudge your limp arm from its resting place on my waist, to carress your hollow, high-boned cheek as I did when you lay exhausted and resting by my side. I fancy you give a soft, ghostly sigh at my touch, even after your spirit has flown - but I know it is probably just the sound of your internal organs quietly shutting down, deep within you. Now my fingers hover gently over your missing nose. No, I can feel no whisper of breath. You are truly gone. I rest my hand on your chest instead, feeling the bare, pale skin that is broken in several places by old, jagged scars that rip mercilessly across each other. I can feel the resistance of your sternum beneath my fingers, but your body has cooled slightly and I cannot feel your heat any more...oh, Erik...

I look down at him sadly. When does a person cease to be a person and becomes instead "a body"? Surely not immediately after death; Erik still seems to be himself. But the more I gaze, the more I see - I am looking at what _used_ to be Erik, for in my arms is just an empty...body. No life stirs in him any more, as that life has gone. I am a widow, after not even a day of marriage, and I truly wish that it was not so, even though I am fully aware of what havoc would have broken out had Erik been gifted with more days in front of him. I shall be returning to poor, dear Raoul, who was so reluctant to let me go to his bitter nemesis - the very man who had forced him to mature quicker than he deserved to. Even to the end he was suspicious and wary of Erik; however, I know that he has accepted my seemingly unreasonable love for the man and will be able to comfort me when he learns of his death. Now that I think about it, perhaps both of them had reached an unspoken form of acceptance of one another - after all, Raoul aknowledged my caring for Erik towards the end, and Erik himself spoke of Raoul before he breathed his last. He even gave his blessings for our marriage, saying that Raoul could offer me the future he could no longer provide himself - the future that I deserved to have. Poor, unhappy Erik...he was not a beast, he was a saint!

I can't cry. I have no idea why this is; at the moment, he looks so wonderful and restful, his glorious golden eyes closed and the lines around his mouth faint. How old is he? Far older than I am, I know that for sure...he must be at the very least twice my current age; the thin streaks of sharply contrasting white concealed among his black locks betray it. It is impossible to tell his age from his face; its deformity makes it so ageless that one can never tell. I lean closer to him, my heart throbbing painfully as the loss begins to dawn on me - not just my loss, but the loss of the whole world of the genius it will never know. I know I will cry for him later.

There is a tiny fleck of black-scarlet blood in the corner of his pale lips that I had not noticed. I wipe it away gently, lovingly, erasing the pink smear as dotingly as any wife. Now I'm a living wife to a dead husband. Oh, Erik...the time has come for me to finally say goodbye.

His friend, the Persian man, is still waiting outside. He has been waiting since yesterday evening, when I came down to see Erik. I truly admire him; I know very few people who are so tolerant and loyal to Erik. I can't keep him outside, unknowing, while I lie embracing the corpse that is now dead for sure. I will need to recover my clothes and dress myself - not to mention make Erik's poor skeletal body presentable, too. It will be torture to move him - torture to pull away from his everlasting embrace, but I know I will have to do it sometime.

I look at Erik again, and plant a kiss on his yielding, unresponsive lips. To my horror, his mouth opens slightly under mine - but it is only because he is so relaxed in death that he cannot keep his jaw closed. Tenderly, I close his mouth for him and gently carress his face again. The memories are all coming back to me; memories of our first meeting, of every past event - both good and not so good. I find I can still remember how it began, all those years ago, in this very Opera House...


	2. Chapter 1: The Stagehand's Tale

_**A/N:**__** And here is Chapter 1...**_

* * *

I suppose we must have been seventeen or eighteen at the time, Meg and I. Oh, dear Meg! She will always be my closest friend, no matter how many events have come between us. I remember vividly my first days at the Opéra Populaire, when I was fresh from the Paris Consérvatoire. I was so nervous and intimidated by the opulence that surrounded me, by the talent of the singers and dancers, that on my first day I wept for hours in the tiny chapel I had found. Silly of me, I know, but I was so scared! The halls of the Opéra were so large, the corridors so long and dark...and the gilt-and-scarlet upholstery of the Grande Salle created such a grand, haunted-castle effect...

Shadows and hidden places were plenty, I had quickly noticed, and I was sure the place was full of spirits and spectres ready to leap out at me whenever I was alone - which, I'm afraid, was quite often during that first week. This was because most of the girls my age were either the most frightfully snobby little ballerinas or already in tight-knit groups of their own, which I was far too shy to approach myself. I would go back home to Mamma Valérius in low spirits, but putting on a smile to reassure the poor old woman that I was doing brilliantly. But then, one day during a rehearsal, I met Meg Giry. When the rehearsal had finished, she came to me, anxious because she had seen me on my own all the time, looking quite upset. I told her, ashamedly, that I knew nobody here and had only just arrived at the Opéra. Immediately she offerred to stay with me and "show me around", which I deeply appreciated. She was so friendly to me, even though she barely knew me at the time!

As I was a chorus girl and Meg was a ballerina, we didn't get much time on stage together, but on one occasion when we did, she asked me afterwards why I looked so troubled and listless when I sang. Wearily, I divulged to her the fact that I used to be able to sing far better, but only when I was with my father...and my father was long dead. My talent for singing had died with him, but I had gone to the Paris Consérvatoire anyway to please poor Mamma Valérius. At this, Meg looked sympathetic, and told me that her father was dead too - all she had left was her mother. I did not even have a mother myself, but after that moment we became unshakeable friends. Life at the Opéra was suddenly instantly better with Meg as a friend, and our friendship remained unbroken for years.

* * *

One day after rehearsals, Meg turned to me with eyes bright and eager and said: 'Oh, Christine, you really must see the Grande Salle at night-time! It's so lovely and lit up - not at all like it is in the evenings!' So we stayed, when others had gone home, and talked until we were sure that the Grande Salle would be empty. When we finally crept in, however, the stage was unlit and the room was mostly dark. Meg frowned, pouting in disappointment with her hands on her hips as she took it in. 'This isn't how it usually is!'

'Never mind,' I consoled, anxious to leave before we were caught. 'We can come another time...'

'Yes...but while we're here, _profitons-en_ - let's make the most of it, hmm?' Meg suggested brightly, mischief sparkling in her brown eyes as she took me by the hand and led me over to the stage. Lightly, she jumped down into the orchestra pit, and did the most outrageous impression of the conductor, Monsieur Reyer. I put my hand to my mouth hurriedly to stifle the incontrollable giggle that the exaggeratedly deadpan expression on Meg's face provoked. When she began to widen her eyes madly and turn her head to one side at me, like Reyer so often did to others who were annoying him, I was quite literally almost crying with mirth, so hilarious was her overdone embellishment of the conductor's mannerisms. 'Meg, _arrête_!' I gasped, motioning for her to leave the pit. 'Get out of there!'

But this only encouraged her even more, until finally she grinned at me. 'Your turn,' she giggled, obliging me finally by climbing out of the orchestra pit. I thought for a moment with a malicious smile on my face, and was about to begin a wicked impression of a ballerina whom I knew Meg disliked very much, when suddenly I caught the sound of male voices up on the catwalks above the stage. Meg had heard them too, and looked stunned for a moment before hurriedly pulling me away to hide in a dark corner, out of sight of the stage. We had not thought about any stagehands who would be lingering to make sure everything was in order for the next day, and it seemed that there were some present now.

Meg and I held our breaths as we listened to the men - there were three of them, I think - making their way down to the stage and talking.

'...had a little trouble with a piece of scenery just now - somebody must have tied a weak knot, it almost fell -' a young man was saying, before he broke off, apparently seeing his fellows glance significantly at each other, and asked, more warily and quietly: 'What is it?'

'We all tie strong knots here,' said another worker ominously. 'They are all double-checked. Every one of them; you can't afford to let something like a backdrop fall.'

The young man sounded confused. 'But...what else could have made the rope give like that?'

'You mean _who_ else...' mysteriously intoned one of the other two. 'I think it is time we told you...of the Phantom of the Opera.'

There was a pause.

'A _phantom_?' the younger stagehand repeated skeptically, and Meg and I raised our eyebrows at each other.

'Yes, a phantom,' asserted one of the others, keeping his voice quiet. He added in suprise: 'I would have thought that you would know, by now, but I suppose you _are_ new to the Opéra and its ways...'

Then he adopted a low, sinister tone, and said: 'You see, Jean-Robert...many, many years ago, long before any hauntings occurred, there was a man who came here to audition. He was not any ordinary man, either; they say he had travelled the world - Egypt, Russia, China, Africa, Persia...he had seen it all, including the snowy wastelands of the north and the deserted islands in the seas between.' The man's voice, distant and dreamy, became more serious as he got back to his point. 'So, for reasons nobody knew, the man had abandoned his travels, wishing instead to audition in the greatest opera house in Europe - the Opéra Populaire. But he did not just to be a simple part of the chorus - oh, no! - he wanted to be the new lead tenor. Of course, the old manager was thinking: "Never! Nobody could ever replace our old Vittorio Chrisanti!"...but then the strange man sang before them, and his voice was so ethereally beautiful that the manager swallowed his own words and employed him straight away. It is said that his voice was like an angel's, so entrancing and sweet it was! Only days later Chrisanti was unceremoniously thrown out, and the gifted man took his place. But of course,' continued the man after a short, effective pause, 'Chrisanti was very much against that, and he and several others secretly plotted the man's downfall.'

Everybody - and that included Meg and I from our hiding-place - was listening raptly. The man was an excellent story-teller, and I was nearly holding my breath as he lowered his voice even more, and continued: 'Then, one dark, gloomy night, they struck...they kidnapped him without anybody knowing, dragging him down to the deepest, blackest cellar, far below the opera house's floors. Driven by pure jealousy of his angelic voice, they got a length rope, tied it around his neck...and then -'

There was the sound of cracking knuckles, and we heard the young stagehand wince at the unpleasant noise. 'But the story didn't end there!' the man said dramatically, recapturing our attention, then his voice hushed once more. 'They say that the man had learned sorcery on his travels, and was a very talented, powerful magician. When they left him hanging in the cellar he took a long time to die, for the drop had been too short and had not managed to kill him. He died a slow and painful death hanging in the darkness, and with his last gasp he pledged that he would return from death's grip and unleash his wrath upon the Opéra Populaire and all inside it!' He paused for effect, then continued darkly: 'To this day he haunts _this very opera house_, slowly but surely taking his revenge upon those who murdered him and disappeared without a trace...those who have seen him claim he is a terrible sight to behold - his ghastly face is that of a corpse, noseless and emaciated, and he hides it with a mask. You must always watch out for the opera's phantom, Jean-Robert...you never know in which shadow he hides - especially on nights such as these...'

I felt Meg give a shiver beside me. I was not normally very squeamish myself, but then I could not stop my eyes from flitting worriedly about the shadows all around us. We heard the young stagehand excuse himself, sounding a little breathless, and moments later, there was a low chuckle from one of the other two men.

'Swallowed every word of it, bless him!' chortled one.

'Mm...he looked a bit skeptical near the middle,' the other replied critically. 'I think the hanging part was a bit too much. You should've had the stabbing with the silver dagger, like you told young Henri last weekend -'

'No, hanging's fine...it's classier, gives it more mystique,' said the first. '_Pauvre p'tit naïf_...'

Poor little naïve, indeed! Even Meg and I had believed his story...when they had left and we were free to breathe, I laughed to myself.

'What?' Meg inquired, still looking worried.

'He did convince me for a second, that man with his stories of phantoms, even though he exaggerated dreadfully,' I said, but for some reason Meg did not share in my relieved laughter. 'What is it?' I asked her.

She looked at me with an anxious frown. 'I don't know, Christine - you get scared by these big deep shadows as much as I do. And the ballerinas have been talking about some ghost for as long as I can remember...' Seeing my sudden look of worry, she laid a comforting hand on my arm. 'But don't be afraid - I'm sure it's just some silly myth. Like the story of the Headless Choirmaster, who turned out to be an old costume on a coathanger that somebody had left in a breezy dark room.'

'Yes...' I laughed distractedly, remembering her telling me about that a few days before, and then I followed her out of the Grande Salle, nevertheless glancing somewhat fearfully at the gloomy boxes and the dark gleam of the stage before leaving.

* * *

'No emotion whatsoever...utterly dispassionate!' I overheard Reyer complaining - definitely about me. I felt my face flush; how could he know, or understand the reason my voice and my soul had become so separate? He would never care - all that mattered to him was good music, a good production, and good attendance. Even if he knew how well I had once been able to sing, he would still put me in the "marginally-good" chorus member category. It was certain that I would never be able to stand out, since I was, infallibly, part of a chorus. Sometimes, even though I knew my failed voice would never get me there, I would fancy, just for a second, what it would be like to be the prima donna of the Opéra...it must be so grand, to possess a great voice and share it with hundreds of rapt people, be applauded for your voice and yours alone, to know you had true purpose to your life...

Apparently, though, La Carlotta's start in the world had not been as glorious as her current state was. Meg told me she had heard the most wicked rumours that the diva had made her start in life dancing on tables in her native Spain. I didn't know whether to believe it or not; it would be quite miraculous to think that the woman had risen so high...but then again, perhaps it was just hateful gossip spread by jealous people. That, of course, is what fame engenders, I suppose...

But even though I was just a face in a crowd and more timid than the other showy, loud chorus girls, I still got my share of malicious talk. I was deeply hurt to overhear a small group of the less kind girls conversing about my lamentable singing, giggling to themselves as they continued to talk. That evening Meg was indignant when I told her, and was all too ready to give the girls a word or two (which, knowing Meg, would probably entail a well-deserved cuff for good measure), but I told her that it did not matter - people gossiped every day, and it was normal that others would be brought into it. She reluctantly accepted to leave them alone, telling me that my voice wasn't really as horrendous as they said - those girls were simply the more malicious ones from the chorus, and not everybody shared their opinions.

Meg's optimism helped me recover from that ordeal, but I still became increasingly aware of the way I tended to fade into the background on occasion. With the rest of the chorus, I was often forgotten, and, as the unspoken rule of most of the girls was "shriek if you wish your presence to be noticed", I found myself always jostled to the edge of the groups they formed. Whenever rehearsals were paused, they would converse about things I could not relate to, which meant I did not speak, and which consequently meant I was ignored completely. It was truly deppressing, watching them all talk, and yell when they felt others had more limelight. All I could really do was hover on the edge of the group and wait with patient desperation for the rehearsals to resume, or for a break to come in which I could talk to Meg. I longed for her to talk to, instead of hovering like a silent shadow, forgotten by the circle of chattering people. Oh, why was I cursed with the modesty that prevented me from pushing my way into that group and reminding them of my presence?

Everything was definitely bleak and lonely for me, especially in those long periods of time without Meg...

* * *

I remember I was in the tiny chapel one evening. I had only just escaped from rehearsals, and Meg was being held back for extra ballet practice, so I took refuge there in the chapel. I was so miserable - I was tired, so tired of being forgotten! I was not asking to be made the star of the show, but to be simply _included_ in normal conversations, to take part in the discussions of others...

'Oh, Papa,' I whispered, remembering his jaunty camaraderie with me whenever we performed together. I could recall the sound of his violin so clearly...he played it beautifully, so beautifully that my voice could not help but fill with beauty itself and earn us great fistfuls of coins from our spectators. I remembered fondly how he used to struggle with French...'_Marry a good Frenchman, Christine, then your children won't have to learn this taxing language!_' he would joke. I smiled to myself, feeling my eyes prick with tears as the knowledge that he was gone forever descended again upon me. My poor, poor Papa...he had lost my mother but he did not let his grief take over him, all for the sake of me living a happier life. I still remember the way his comforting embrace felt, whenever I was in tears as a child. His toffee-brown curls would tickle my face, contrasting with the prickly stubble of his ever-unshaven chin. His arms were always so firm and protective, and he would rock me gently until my tears stopped. I would instantly forget my weeping - whether it be over a scraped knee, armless doll or bad dream. I can almost still see his smile, too - the way his sparse moustache, barely visible over the stubble, would curl upwards on either side of his curving lips as he told me: '_There now, Christine - floodgates are closed, eh?_' Then he would playfully tweak my nose to earn a smile in response, and my good humour would be restored. But now, as I sat in the chapel of the Opéra, he was not there to hold me and take away my tears with some music or a tale of his. Wiping my eyes, I looked towards the stained-glass window at the setting sun outside, recalling his favourite tale: the tale of Little Lotte and the Angel of Music.

Before my father's untimely death, he promised me that when he reached heaven, he would send down the Angel of Music to guide me. He _promised_...and yet, twelve years onwards from his death, there was no sign of the Angel. Of course, there was no point believing so strongly in that tale...it was only a tale, after all. I had only begun to doubt it once I left childhood and realised that if fairies and goblins didn't exist, perhaps my Angel was also make-believe. This knowledge I had so long tried to deny, but I knew in my bones that it was simply a pretty story, a small superstition that had never been real and never would be. It was painful to accept, but my voice had been growing worse instead of better after my father's death. I supposed that on his deathbed, he had either meant a metaphorical Angel...or he had just told a story to comfort a terrified six-year-old about to lose her only parent. Either way, I was alone, with no guardian but old Mamma Valérius, who was growing more and more bed-ridden herself...

'Oh, Papa, I'm so frightened - so frightened and lonely,' I whispered aloud into the empty chapel. 'Meg is my only friend here, and nobody will talk to me...they made fun of my voice, too, it's awful - I don't know what to do!' I was weeping again, for the hopelessness and despair had filled me up once more. What future did I have? Where would I go when Mamma Valérius left me? Would I be doomed to stay in this opera house until I was old and decrepit, singing my painful songs as part of a hateful chorus?

'I'm so lonely...so lonely...' I wept again, feeling even more wretched because I was talking to thin air. If my dear Papa ever heard my pathetic pleas, surely he would have sent his Angel before now? But no; it seemed I was all alone. Just me, by myself, and I needed to accept that, painful as it was.

I admit I had come to this chapel several times before, sending up my hopeless prayers to my father, sometimes speaking them aloud in my desperation. I would remind him of the tale he had told me, what he had promised me, how in need of guidance I was at that moment...

'Why does my Angel never come?' I sniffed dejectedly to myself, drying my tears and shamed at my own weakness of spirit, ready now to return to the -

'_But I am here, child_...'

I froze immediately, unable to move a muscle. Then, my limbs began to tremble uncontrollably, my ears still ringing from the sound I had just heard. There are no words I can think of to describe how beautiful and mellifluous that voice was...no human voice can compare to it, and to even begin to grasp the full extent of its sheer ethereal harmony, one needs to hear it with one's own ears first. I believe I had stopped breathing at that moment - how could I, so stunned I was! There was no question of this voice coming from somewhere outside the chapel, for this was too lovely to be the voice of a normal man. Not only that, but the voice came from directly _inside the room with me_. I took a shuddering breath, and whispered with tremulous wariness: 'Wh-who is it?'

'_Your Angel, child...I am your Angel - your Angel of Music_,' replied the Voice softly, its hypnotic resonance striking me dumb once more. My entire body was shaking now, and I felt extremely light-headed. I could feel a swoon coming, but I held it back, not wishing to faint and stop hearing this lovely Voice.

'Truly?' I asked breathlessly, feeling a slight flicker of doubt; what if this was all just a product of my desperate, over-heated mind? But the Voice spoke again, its powerful but gentle male purr surrounding me.

'_Are you doubting your father's word_?' the Voice asked. '_Let me sing for you, then, and listen well!_' And then he began to sing.

Such melody I have never heard in my life. The Voice sang in a bewitching tenor, his vibrant harmony washing over me like the waves of a restless sea. I did not focus on the words he sang, so engrossed I was in his glorious music; however, he managed to convey those words through the melody, and my mind was taken over by a rush of images provoked by each rolling note, each heart-rending and perfect vibrato shaking me to the core. He took over my mind further with a shatteringly irresistible crescendo'ing melisma, his voice fluctuating between scores and scores of rising notes in one single breath. When he softly crooned the last, perfectly pitched note, I was ready to collapse from such an onslaught of pure genius. You may well think me gullible, but after that song, I was left with no doubt that this really was my Angel of Music.

'Oh, Angel! _Pardonne-moi_!' I breathed. 'I am so glad...that you are finally...here...oh...!' The darkness creeping in through the corners of my eyes claimed me, and I fell to the floor in a dead faint, overcome by the sheer intensity of the emotions that swept through me.


	3. Chapter 2: A Guide and Guardian

_**A/N:**__** I'm so, so, so, so sorry about the gigantic delay! I had the most appalling case of writer's block…I couldn't write a single thing. However, I'm recovering now – no worries. :)**_

_**Ooh! Reviews! Thank you, ellalo (oh dear…I'll look back on it! Thanks!), Chantal (aw, so kind:D) and Angharad23 (**_** - blush – **_**I'm flattered! And I will continue!)!**_

* * *

'Ssshh! There she is! Be quiet!'

I walked past the suspiciously silent gaggle of ballet girls who were all staring at me with varying levels of distaste and false nonchalance. No doubt I had been the subject of their little conversation; these were the very girls whom I had noticed took greatest pleasure in scorning my singing. To them I was just a petty little nobody who had been employed at the pretigious Opéra because I appeared pathetic and endearing, and who could be out-sung even by the vagrants of Paris. I was too timid to have a personality or feelings, according to them, so they failed to see my caring side or the pain I had endured throughout my life. In their eyes I was fodder for all sorts of wicked talk.

As I made my way through the otherwise-empty corridor, trying to ignore the girls' stares, I felt a surge of a strange, powerful emotion bubble up unexpectedly within me. I realised that I was not, as I had accepted it, a shy little ingenue who was as lifeless as her singing and unworthy of proper company, but the one chosen by the Angel of Music. Memories of my new-found guide and protector rose in my mind, as I recalled the vivid beauty of the voice I had heard only last night before Meg found me unconscious in the chapel. I hadn't told her, of course - even now I am not sure why this was - but if I had, she would definitely not have believed me. The knowledge that I had an Angel, a real, genuine Angel watching over me, made me realise that _I_ was not the lowly, pitiable creature - it was _they_ who were the ones to be pitied! Their lives were so dull and meaningless that they resorted to petty gossip to make themselves appear higher than everybody else - and here they were, still trying to make me think that I had to talent or worth.

Courage born from the knowledge that I was no longer alone surged up, and I looked straight up at them with an icy expression. 'I suppose you feel so high and mighty now, don't you? At least I don't dance as if I have two left feet...or should I say _four_, you stuck-up, self-obsessed cows!' The uncharacteristically fiery words that left my mouth were met with a second of outraged silence from the haughty group...then one girl, the tallest one out of them, stepped forwards slightly and opened her mouth to say something biting in return, but she was suddenly cut of by a burst of unearthly, resonant laughter that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Some of the more cowardly girls clutched each other. Then, once the echo of the mirthful laughter faded away, the tall girl smirked at me knowingly and remarked: 'You see - even the Opera Ghost laughs at you!'

This was met with another bout of laughter, but not the glorious peals of mirth that had followed my speech - it was the high, inane tittering of the other ballet girls. My courage, already dampened by the maniacal laughter I had heard, faded completely and I hurried away from them, their giggling following me down the corridor...

* * *

That evening, many were startled by the bloodcurdling screams that rang through the empty ballet dormitories. When everybody heard the terrible noise, they came running, thinking somebody had come to a rather painful end...but when they arrived at the dormitory, all they found was a terrified ballerina flattened against the wall.

The tall girl grabbed at her friends, her eyes wide and mad, her hair untidy, all of her dignified airs lost. 'It was awful!' she gibbered. 'I just turned around, and there it was!'

'There what was?'

She shuddered, gripping her pale, clammy arms. 'A horrible, huge _rat_! All black and hairy and ugly! It had a horrible long tail, and it ran straight at me!'

Some of the crowd that had gathered relaxed slightly, glad that there was no real danger. People began to leave, but the ballet girl clutched at her friends tightly. 'But that wasn't all!' she gasped. 'It looked at me with its repulsive beady eyes...and...and it _spoke_!'

Her friends glanced at each other. '_Quoi_?'

The tall girl gave a huge sob. 'You don't believe me!' she cried hysterically. 'It's true, though - _c'est vrai, je vous le jure_! _Il a parlé_! It said: "Scream all you wish; it is _you_ who are the real rat, from what I have seen - and I will be watching you!"'

Her fellow ballerinas were now looking at her warily, as if she had gone mad - which she certainly must have. Talking rats? 'Maybe...you just have something on your conscience, or something...'

'Concience? Concience?' she screamed. 'I'm not guilty of anything! I have nothing to - oh!' Her eyes suddenly went wide, and she grabbed the hand of the girl nearest to her. She began to sob again, but silently. 'Tell me you heard that,' she whimpered. 'Tell me you heard what that awful voice just said...'

The other girls watched her cautiously, and each one of them shook their heads gravely. 'Anna, I think you should -'

'I'm sorry about the Swedish brat! I'm sorry! There? Are you happy now? Will you leave me alone?' the tall girl suddenly yelled out, seemingly to no one in particular. There was a low _whoosh_, and suddenly all of the candles in the room were extinguished. Now all of the ballerinas were whimpering, huddling together in a tight group. 'You've made him angry, Anna - you've made him very angry!' stammered one of the girls. Then the strange, unearthly laughter began; the laughter that sounded as if it was coming from the other side of the grave. All of the ballerinas squealed and ran out of the room, the rat incident completely forgotten in their simple minds. In a few minutes the fear of this encounter would have extinguished, and they would be passionately recounting it to all of the other ballerinas, adding it to the stockpile of rumours, gossip and stories about the ghost that haunted the Opéra.

* * *

By the kindness of Fate, I had been given a dressing-room to use that had the very comforting nickname of "the haunted room". Many stories surrounded my dressing-room; tales of supernatural encounters within it, of ghostly sightings, extinguishing lamps and blood running down walls. Although I admit that I was never immune to the superstition and stories of others, I felt as if I had a solid form of protection against the dangerous and volatile spirit that haunted the Opéra Populaire. I had an Angel from Heaven who was more than a match for the Opera's Phantom. I was safe.

Nevertheless, I hastened to light the lamps and candles in my dressing-room, because even though I knew I had a guardian, the shadows in my haunted room and the events of the evening made me a little nervous. My eyes flickered over to the great, majestic full-length mirror that sat upon the far wall, its intricate gilded frame shining at me. Quite a few of the stories surrounding my haunted dressing-room were about that mirror. I walked over to it slowly, and touched the glass musingly. The mirror seemed normal enough; grand and heavy, perhaps, but still not supernatural at all. I let myself relax slightly. It was most probably all just silly stories, designed to strike fear in the hearts of gullible young -

'_Good evening, my child_,' a vibrant, bewitching voice murmured softly, sounding all around me. My breath caught with surprise, and then I was filled with joy as I realised who it was.

'Angel!'

'_I see you have lit each and every candle in this room..._' he remarked, somewhat questioningly.

'Yes,' I replied, slightly breathless before the majesty of his ethereal voice. 'I...I don't like the dark much, you see. I feel safer when my room is lit.'

There was a brief pause, then the Angel spoke again: '_Indeed? And why do you not like the absence of light? Darkness is safety, after all...why do you fear it and not welcome it?_' He seemed to be thoroughly confused. Perhaps he did not understand my petty, earthly terrors?

'It's hard to explain...I just...don't like it when I can't see. And I keep thinking of...of the Phantom when I am in the dark!' I confessed, feeling slightly guilty. However, the Angel's voice quickly soothed me, his rich tones penetrating my mind and immediately making me relax.

'_The Phantom?_' repeated the Angel softly. The tone of the his voice was hard to discern, so I did not attempt to guess at what it was.

'Yes,' I said, feeling a little foolish. 'Everybody talks of him...the ballerinas are always shrieking about him, and some time ago I heard the stagehands talking, too...they say that there's a ghost in this opera house, a phantom that haunts the cellars and comes above to roam around in the shadows of the Opéra! It frightens me, Angel...I don't like such tales.'

'_Do not be frightened...tell me what you have heard of this Phantom_,' the Angel murmured soothingly and coaxingly, in a voice that I could not possibly resist.

So I told him: 'Most say he has the strength to bend people to his will, and that he can bewitch anyone he wants to. Others say he can make the most terrible events occur...and all of them agree that he is horribly, fearsomely hideous.' I shuddered at the memories of the various vivid descriptions I had heard. 'Apparently he is a skeleton...or a hell-demon, they all contradict each other. But they still say he is so repulsively loathsome and ghastly that -'

'_Enough_.' The Angel's voice was unusually sharp, and I bit my tongue. There was a long pause, so long that my brow creased with a worried frown; I was suddenly afraid that I had offended my Angel by talking of such malicious ghosts, and that he had ascended back to heaven in outrage. 'Angel?' I whispered tentatively into the silence.

'_Yes, child._'

'Have I angered you?' I asked tremulously, looking up with beseeching eyes at the ceiling.

'_No...no._' There was another stretch of silence. Something began to poke at my thoughts, and I was brave enough to voice it. 'Angel...if there really _is_ a Phantom...will you protect me from him?' I implored timidly, full of anxiety.

Again there was a moment of tense silence, but it was soon broken by the sweet male voice:

'_Yes, child; of course I will protect you from the Phantom - I will protect you from _any_ harm that would befall you! Have no fear..._' My shoulders sagged with relief: I had a true protector now, somebody who would keep me safe from danger. My Angel would be stronger protection against the malicious Phantom than any of the silly little talismans and charms the other ballerinas religiously wore. He was a heaven-sent guardian whose holy light would make even the blackest of shadows flee! I felt instantly buoyed up.

'I heard some ballerinas had an encounter with him this evening,' I ventured, feeling a little bolder.

'_I daresay they had it coming to them, since I was appalled at their behaviour towards you!_' vociferated the Angel, and I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Did he mean the encounter had been a Heaven-sent punishment? Or was he being unusually vengeful? My father had always said the Angel of Music was gentle and kind; but now, it seemed, I was seeing his fiercer side.

'But I heard something even worse...I don't know whether it was a rumour or not, but - they say the ghost killed a man,' I said, recalling suddenly what I had heard. 'A stagehand was found hanging in one of the cellars. And the people who took him down said they heard music playing...'

'_Music_?'

'Yes...it's frightening that the Phantom might have a murderous side to him - I mean, if he is real, that is...'

'_Music...from where did it come, child, this music that they heard_?'

I was taken aback by his interest; but then again, he _was_ the Angel of Music, so it only made sense that this music would interest him. 'They didn't say...but they told everyone that it sounded disturbing and frightening...like no music any man has ever played before!'

'_They are right - no man could ever play that music!_' the Angel cried with odd passion. I was surprised.

'You know about that music, Angel?' I enquired in shock.

'_I know about all music, child - but the only thing I am certain of about that particularly disastrous event is that the stagehand took his own life_,' the Angel told me with firm certainty.

'How do you know that?' I gasped. I should have held my tongue.

'_Are you perhaps questioning my knowledge_?' he snapped, voice powerful and godlike and dangerous all of a sudden. I all but fell to my knees.

'Forgive me, Angel...of course not...' I assured him, and his temper seemed to abate.

'_Now we must begin our work; it is time for you to improve your voice_,' he said, making my heart suddenly rise with joy. '_You shall learn the part of Marguerite for Faust...which, I believe, will be showing at this Opéra on some future date. I shall teach you how to reach every note and fill your voice with your spirit again. We shall amaze Paris on opening night, you and I_!'

His inspiring words filling me with happiness and eagerness to learn, I listened carefully to each and every one of his instructions, sure that with his help, Paris would indeed be amazed.


	4. Chapter 3: A Familiar Face

_**A/N:**__** Thank you to Chantal for the review! You made my day!**_

* * *

By the end of the month, even I - who had been so skeptical about my abilities before! - could tell that my singing had improved phenomenally. When I sang, I could now begin to _feel_ the words, bit by bit...it was a slow process, but I could sense that I was getting better.

My new improvements had not gone unnoticed; chorus members now murmured words of surprise instead of scathing sarcasm, and this made my life at the Opéra suddenly seem so much brighter. Even though not many people remarked my singing, I was still no longer the subject of mockery for others. I had at last earned my status as "one of the crowd", and I was infinitely pleased about this.

However, it seemed I was the only one to be pleased; my heavenly Angel seemed to be ready to accept nothing but perfection. He was unsatisfied with my current state - he wanted me to aim higher, to soar above the heads of the other chorus girls. He told me that with his help, he could get me to the very top: to the place of prima donna! He would not rest if I remained a lowly chorus girl...his oddly perfectionist nature would not permit it.

Thanks to his heaven-sent determination and extreme aptitude for tutelage, it was not only my singing that changed - _I_ changed, too! Within the month, I had ceased to be the weak, snivelling child languishing in the Opéra's chapel every night; I had become infinitely more mature and responsible. For once, I felt like a proper young woman instead of a lost young girl. This caused more people to appreciate and aknowledge me...and also for more young men to begin to notice me as well...

But the change in me was mirrored by a more negative change in my Angel. Whether it was because he saw that I was stronger-spirited and more confident and he decided to alter his teaching methods I do not know, but all of a sudden he started to become less and less patient and benevolent. My Angel of Music had worryingly turned into a stern, strict and rather forbidding creature, not accepting anything below the best of efforts from my part. If I did not try my hardest all the time during my lessons, I would be in considerable trouble, for displeasing the Angel meant quite dire consequences. He would often lose his temper if he felt I was not making a hard enough effort, and if I did not bring myself back up to standard immediately, he would unleash his fury upon me or - even worse - his voice would disappear altogether, leaving me begging and pleading in a silent and empty room. I understood that I was given an unimagineably rare privilege, and yet I still found it worrying whenever my Angel's fiery temper threatened to ignite. I assumed that he was being harsher and more strict with me because I had matured and was no longer a fragile child in his eyes; but I never could truly tell. One thing was for certain, though - I needed to pour out my soul to him if I wanted to truly please him.

* * *

As the weeks went by, I found my daily lessons with the Angel of Music were growing more and more trying. My celestial tutor would demand constant and complete focus, and woe betide me if I ever made a slip. But of course, losing focus was almost impossible with him; the almost hypnotic power of his voice filled my mind and the only way I could lose track of things was by trying to remember too much at once. I tried my very best, and that only just managed to satisfy him.

'_Begin on C_,' he commanded shortly, and straight away I began to sing for him. As I progressed higher and higher up the scale, I could feel a strange..._tension_ in the room. It was only when I started to reach the higher notes that I realised this tension was caused by the cold impatience emanating from my unseen tutor. As I became certain this concentrated silence was due to his displeasure, my voice faltered most unattractively, its force fading with halting uncertainty.

'Master?' I murmured, my words tinged with fear. I knew my faulty stop must have sounded even worse to his ears - and one thing the Angel appeared to despise above all else was bad music.

'_I am glad you have realised that you were erring_,' he intoned after a long pause, his voice clipped with icy sarcasm. '_Did I not instruct you to commence on the note "C", perchance?_'

I felt my frame shrink under the burning cold of his irony. His voice was so powerful that with a few words he could reduce me to a child once more. In using his voice in such a way, he showed me that he could take the spirit out of my singing just as easily as he could channel it in. He reminded me how much I needed him.

'...yes...' I whispered, wildly trying to guess what I had done wrong.

'_Then why did you begin on C flat?_' he asked, his tone remaining coldly kind but threatening to become very _un_kind if I made a wrong move.

And sure enough, I did make a wrong move. 'But, Angel...one semitone...and I didn't have any reference -'

'_I hope for your sake, child, that you are not being insolent towards me!_' the Angel suddenly stormed. His voice was unbearably intense, sounding so directly inside my head that my temples began to hurt and I felt faint. '_One semitone makes the entire melody out of tune. I will not tolerate this!_'

'Please, master - please forgive me! I was not thinking -'

'_THEN YOU WOULD DO BETTER TO THINK!_' His voice sounded so powerfully inside my head that it pushed a cry from me, and I fell to my knees on the ground, clutching at my skull. So much sound, concentrated in my poor head...it felt as if it was enough to make it burst! I began to weep in shock as my angry Angel thundered on: '_If you presume I cannot see you at all times, then you are wrong! I _know_ about those witless, vapid young men who make eyes at you in such a sickening manner - and I know that you blush each time like a little schoolgirl! IT MUST CEASE! You belong to ME, and you must only think of your Angel - always!_' A raving madness seemed to fuel his anger futher, as I wept, terrified, on the floor of my dressing-room. '_If you do not give your entire heart and soul to me, then I will leave forever! Renounce these earthly indulgences - renounce love and marriage! I can give your voice and spirit everything it lacks - BUT I CAN ALSO TAKE IT ALL AWAY, LEAVING YOU WITH __NOTHING_' Abruptly, the gas lamps on the walls flared up and extinguished, along with the candles, plunging me into an instant and terrifying darkness.

The silence afterwards was filled only by my sobs of pain and fear. His fury spent, I was left shaken and trembling on the ground. Renounce love...and marriage? However, he _was_ my Angel...he deserved to have the entirety of my heart, I suppose...oh, but he scared me so much now! For a long while I shivered and wept like a child. Then, to my surprise, a soothing voice full of beauty and regret told me: '_...don't cry so, child. I simply must make you understand...that it is imperative that you only give your heart to your Angel. If I do not have your heart, then I cannot make you sing. Please understand, Christine...you are mine...I chose _you_., above all the others I could have chosen...'_

I sniffed, wonderfully comforted by the voice that had just caused me to weep with fear. Wiping my eyes, I looked up at the ceiling, chastened. 'Forgive me, my Angel,' I pleaded penitently. 'I shall give you my heart and soul. I...I would rather have you with me than be married like anybody else. I'll try harder with my tuning...'

'_You are forgiven, then, my dear child! You shall reach greater heights than all of those foolish girls who have bound themselves by _love_ - you shall soar, with me by your side!_' The oil lamps gradually relit themselves one by one, basking my room in a wonderful, familiar golden glow. My shoulders sagged with relief.

'Thank you, master...thank you...'

'_You are tired; you must get some rest, if we are to rehearse tomorrow morning_,' the Angel told me, sounding considerabely more gentle.

'Yes...yes, I shall,' I replied, and then, his powerful presence was gone, lifting from my mind and back into heaven. I rose shakily, the magnitude of what earthly indulgences I had forsaken hitting me. No love...but my love would only be for music, and for my Angel, who ruled it. A wave of tiredness swept over me; tomorrow would certainly be a busy day...

* * *

I was quite right when I sensed that the following day would be a trying one. Rehearsals were relentless and tiring, and my early-morning lesson seemed to exhaust me rather than warm my voice up for the day. However, my Angel was noticeably more civil with me this time; though he was still stern, he seemed to be taking care to treat me more fairly after having made me cry the previous night. Not that last night was the first time he had made me cry...the Angel of Music could be despairingly demanding at times. I took this positive change as a blessing, and I also found myself treated to a duet with him. Nothing could compare to the beauty of my Angel's voice...I could listen to it for a thousand years and still beg for more.

The truth was, I knew I would never be able to live without my Angel. If he ever deserted me, I would be left with no hope and no future. That was why I had decided to adhere to his terms as strictly as I possibly could. As I walked through the corridors on my way to my dressing-room, my mind was set. I would turn a blind eye to any young man who looked at me admiringly - I would not even speak to them if they attempted to engage me in conversation! My Angel was all that mattered; my Angel was the only one I would give my heart to, for there was no living mortal man who could enchant me so with his voice, or inspire such confidence in me. Only the Angel of Music would fill my attention, and for him I would devote myself entirely to the art of music. No man could ever -

My train of thought was abruptly brought to a halt as I glimpsed an oddly familiar flash of golden hair. At first I thought it was Meg, but then I realised that Meg's locks were not as richly honey-coloured...nor were they as short. My heart stopped as I noticed I was staring at a well-dressed young man, conversing earnestly with one of the managers and another older man who had the same flaxen locks. When the younger man turned his face to glance at the other end of the corridor, my heart began to beat faster as I recognised just who this rich young gentleman was.

I turned away in panic, heart fluttering now. _No...not him, not now!_ What an awful twist of fate! Why did this handsome boy have to appear here just after I promised to my Angel that I would block out all love? For I knew the sight of those bright blue eyes well enough to realise that I was standing in the presence of my childhood love, Raoul de Chagny!

There was no doubt that it was him; I could have recognised that strong chin and determined brow anywhere. The man standing next to him, I assumed, was the elder brother I had once heard him mention - Philippe. Yes, it was Philippe de Chagny and his brother...his younger brother Raoul! I could scarcely believe it...although I tried hard not to stare, I just could not help myself. I found myself wonderingly taking in his features, still in a state of shock. His fair waves were cut shorter than I remembered them to be, and apart from the small moustache on his upper lip and a slightly longer face, I found him to be almost exactly the same as he had been when we had last met. He must have been in his early twenties by then, but still he retained a boyish, rather youthful countenance. Memories stirred in my mind, like dust sluggishly rising from the floor of a long-forgotten room...

Memories of the time when Raoul and I had last met surged up; memories of that faraway, blissful time when my poor Papa was still with me and we were staying in the small seaside house in Bretagne...it seems an eternity ago, an entire lifetime away, but I can still recall it all so vividly. I would give anything to see those expanses of sea and long cliffs, to feel the salty breeze upon my face again...oh, how I loved Bretagne!

I remember vividly those summer day we spent together, Raoul and I. After he had so gallantly rescued my scarf from the sea, we became inseparable; the two of us would take walks along the empty beaches in the morning, sit by the cliffs covered in vividly green grass in the afternoon, and spend time together in my father's little house. Our evenings would be filled with music just as our mornings were filled with sunshine, and Papa would play his violin for us. I have fond memories of him striking up a merry, lively tune on his instrument and crying out joyfully for Raoul and I to dance. At first Raoul blushed with awkwardness, but the gaiety of my father's music always managed to erase his shyness. We would all end up dancing - even Papa! - and laughing all the while as the violin poured out its lively melodies...

I deeply missed those beautiful days, when Raoul and I would sit near the seaside cliffs, watching the waves flow and the sparse grass sway in the salty wind. What joy I felt then, with the bright sun warming my back as I sat beside Raoul, talking for hours on end. He was my only friend at that time, for I was not acquainted with anybody from the nearby villages. I think I myself may have been Raoul's sole and closest companion at the time, too, for he came from a grand old family that may have tended to intimidate his peers. Even though we did not speak of it much in those golden summer days, it was common knowledge to me then that Raoul was the son of a Comte, and would inherit a title, too, when he came of age. However, we never thought much of this - never pondered the hierarchical difference between ourselves. We remained solid friends and even became shy sweethearts.

Now, as I stood in the crowded corridor in the bleakness of the present, I felt a warmth grow in my heart. _Raoul, how I've missed you..._I had a terrible urge to go and speak to him all of a sudden. But of course, just as that half-formed thought rose in my mind, I realised; the blissful Breton summers had gone, and we were both adults now, with responsibilities. Raoul would have inherited the title of Vicomte now, and it would not do for him to be seen in the company of a simple chorus girl. And as for myself...I could not afford to let this be a reason for my Angel to desert me. I needed my Angel desperately...what would my father say if I caused my heavenly tutor to abandon me because of my own earthly selfishness?

As I stood there, it began to dawn on me that Raoul's appearance was not mere coincidence - this was a Heaven-sent test, to see whether I was really true to my angelic guardian! Determination swept through me. I would pass this test; I would not let myself become distracted. I would show myself worthy of the Angel of Music...

With that thought in mind, I quickly seized control of myself and left, as quickly as I possibly could.

* * *

That evening as I sat in my dressing room, I began to feel the first fragments of nervousness steal over me. Tomorrow night would be opening night, and I was full of anxiety because I had no idea what I would be doing. In rehearsals I had been learning the parts a chorus girl is required to play...but during my lessons with the Angel I had been learning with equal intensity the part of Marguerite - the main part, that Carlotta was to be singing! Was my Angel making me learn Carlotta's part to improve my range...for practice? Or did he mean for me to actually _replace_ Carlotta on opening night? I honestly had no idea what would be in store for me the next day, and that was what made me so nervous...

'_Have you not retired yet, child_?' an echoing voice asked gently. I raised my head, instantly relieved by the presence of my guardian.

'Oh...Angel...no, I have not,' I replied. 'I...I don't feel tired at all.'

'_You are troubled_,' noted the Angel pensively. '_Why so? Are you still frightened of the Ghost? I have already assured you that he is quite easily kept at bay _-'

'No...I'm worried about opening night,' I confessed. 'I'm not sure what role I shall be playing...'

'_Why, nothing less than the role of Marguerite, of course!_' the Angel intoned. '_I have been training you for it, and so you shall perform it._'

I frowned in confusion...'But...I could never be given that part,' I said. 'Carlotta is the one who has been practicing for it, and she is the prima donna, after all -'

'_Tomorrow_,' the Angel said, calmly and ominously, '_Carlotta will fall unfortunately ill...something she will eat or drink, no doubt...and the part will be rightfully given to you_.'

I gasped at this terrible prophecy of bad luck, and whispered in awe: 'You can see into the future, Angel?'

There was a pause, and then he replied: '_I suppose one could say that...in a way..._'

'So...Carlotta will fall ill? But that's terrible! She -'

'_Forgive me, child, but I must leave you now; somebody approaches and I have much to prepare..._'

The very second the voice faded, there was a knock on my dressing room door. I could only marvel at the Angel's gift of foresight...

I opened the door, and there stood Meg Giry, looking very excited and fit to burst with some information that she held. 'Christine!' she said. 'I'm sorry I'm coming so late, but...oh! I must tell you something!'

Curious, I let her in, and sat with her near my dressing-table. Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm, and she told me: 'Oh, Christine, have you seen the new patrons?' I felt a leaden feeling in my stomach, and I fought to keep my face vaguely inquisitive.

'You mean the Comte de Chagny and his brother?' I asked with careful indifference. 'Yes, I believe I have.'

'His brother is quite a charming boy, isn't he?' remarked Meg. 'The Vicomte...don't you find him rather dashing?' There was a strange determined glint in her eye that told me these were not just casual questions.

'What is it you wanted to tell me, Meg?' I prompted her, to distract her from these questions that would surely anger my Angel. She instantly smiled, and took my hand in both of hers.

'The Vicomte has noticed you, Christine, and he has been looking for you all day! Apparently he really, really wishes to speak to you!' Meg told me, face radiant with excitement. 'Just _think_ about it, Christine...he apparently likes you a lot! You seem to have a very rich and _truly_ very handsome young Vicomte as an admirer!' Those were the lasts words I wanted to hear, especially in the very room that my Angel seemed to manifest himself in the most. My eyes darted around, and I worried whether he was hiding here, listening in silent fury.

'Christine?' I realised Meg was staring at me, her look of enthusiastic joy replaced by a look of worry. 'Are you feeling ill? You've gone terribly white...'

'Oh, Meg, I _cannot_ meet him...I _must_ not!' I said helplessly. 'I do not wish to speak to him at all - he does not interest me in the slightest way. No, I will not see him.'

'Christine...what...?'

'I'm sorry, Meg...I just cannot,' I told her with firmness, though I felt so terribly despairing inside to be doing this to poor, modest, kind Raoul! 'I...I think I would like to lie down now.'

'Very well...goodnight...' she said, looking completely lost but deciding it was probably pointless to insist. When she left me, I collapsed back into my chair and felt tears coming once more.


	5. Chapter 4: Opening Night

_**A/N:**__** Oh dear, I've done it again, haven't I...made you wait ages for an update. I'm terribly sorry - I had a very busy week and a rather nasty cold (which I am still recovering from). Thank you so much for the review, The Little Mademoiselle! Seeing as you were the only one to review, I will dedicate this chapter to you. :)**_

_**I'm assuming everybody else is too shy to drop a word or a bit of criticism...I'm not asking for a deep analysis of each chapter, a simple "hi!" make me just as happy! You know you want to. :D**_

* * *

I will quite possibly never forget the opening night of _Faust_.

Just like the Angel predicted, Carlotta was mysteriously absent from the Garnier Opera House on the day of the performance. Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin were at a loss what to do, and the whole cast was in disarray because of the prima donna's absence. The poor managers were practically tearing at their hair, so panicked they were at the prospect of having to reimburse the huge audience that had paid to see the performance. What was even more worryingly inconvenient for them was the fact that La Carlotta's understudy was _also_ill and unable to perform. However, what was entirely inconvenient for the directors of the Opera was, on the other hand, unsettlingly convenient for me. I had nothing standing in my way of taking the role of Marguerite. I was not sure whether to feel sorry for the sick diva and understudy - as well as the fretful directors - or to rejoice at this heaven-sent opportunity...

* * *

That morning, the rehearsals had been called off due to the uncertainty of whether there actually would be a performance to rehearse for. This meant that I was forced to make myself scarce around the corridors, for I knew that Raoul must still be looking for me and I did not wish to anger my Angel...as I knew that if I did meet my childhood friend and sweetheart, I would not be able to stop myself from talking to him and sharing my thoughts and feelings.

When in the afternoon the startling knowledge came around that _I_had been given the part of Marguerite - I, a common chorus girl - there was great surprise all around, in cast members and directors alike. Some were relieved that there was somebody to take Carlotta's place, but others were openly quite dubious of my capabilities as a singer. How Richard and Moncharmin came to the decision that I should take Carlotta's place I do not know, but there are rumours that a very strange letter was involved...of which I knew very little.

Nevertheless, I accepted this knowledge readily, for I had been well prepared for it, even if I still felt rather nervous. When afternoon all too soon faded into evening, my costume had only just been finished. Oh, how those seamstresses fretted! As La Carlotta was an older woman than I, her dresses were of a different size, and the poor seamstresses were really quite under the pressure of taking them in for that night. I could not count the number of times I was pricked by their pins as they bustled around me, measuring skirts and tugging at corsets while I shied under the unexpected attention I was receiving. I was rather unused to being the subject of attention, but I held myself still and helped the women as best as I could by keeping hastily pinned fabric in place. Then, when the last of my costumes was finished, it was time to get ready for the performance. I remember glancing at the ornate hands of the small clock in my dressing-room, and feeling the excitement begin to bubble deep in my stomach as I saw the time of the opening drawing nearer. Just before I left my dressing-room that night, I uttered a quick, breathless prayer to my Angel, then hurried off to join the other members of the cast.

* * *

I vividly remember the feeling I got when I stood in the darkness behind the stage. I was in my full costume, with my hair pinned up artfully, and the unfamiliar tightness of the dress and the coolness at the back of my neck made everything seem so _unreal_as I hovered in the safe, close darkness offstage. I could hear the stagehands assuming their positions upon the catwalks, ready to hoist scenery up and down, I could hear the whispers of ballerinas and chorus girls as they waited skittishly near me...but most of all, I could hear the low, constant murmur of the vast audience on the other side of the curtain. It was the murmur of an unimaginable amount of people, and I shivered slightly, suddenly unsure whether I was truly meant for this part. I could remember my lines, I could sing them, and I had seen Carlotta acting enough times to know what was expected of the part of Marguerite...but still I felt the nervousness that comes from being so close to an immense audience waiting and whispering. It was only then as I stood offstage with my heart beating fast that I truly realised how _silent _the Grande Salle usually was during rehearsals. With the audience filling it, that silence was no more, making it seem a faraway thing. I shivered again, toying with the lace trimming on my dress. Meg had whispered words of encouragement to me just before we parted, and all of a sudden I craved her company to make this infernal waiting less nerve-wracking.

Too soon for comfort, I heard the orchestra begin to warm up in the pit. Discordant sounds of different instruments tuning at once were audible over the buzz of the Parisian elite's muted conversations, and I felt every note, including the deep, bone-shaking sound of the percussion section sounding itself out. When the orchestra was fully in order, I heard the overture commence. My heart gave a huge leap as I realised the performance had started, and very soon the curtain would rise and the first scene would begin. The audience's sudden attentive silence made me feel weak at the knees, but I breathed slowly and deeply in an effort to calm myself. I had the Angel of Music by my side. I would be able to shine tonight as he wished me to...

When I appeared onstage, what I recall most strongly is the intense raging light and darkness. The lamps at the foot of the stage shone brightly upon me, blinding me to the audience. The light was so bright that the great sea of faces appeared to me a dark shadow...but although I could not clearly see the audience, I could still feel their presence and their eyes upon me. It seemed as if the whole of Paris was sitting there in the Grande Salle, watching me! I acted my best, and even though people were surprised that I was not Carlotta, they actually seemed to tolerate me. To them I was a completely unknown face, but still they appeared to watch me with great interest. And then...then the music began...

* * *

When the music began, I felt a strange, dream-like haze pass over me. Everything seemed so unreal and phantasmal all of a sudden as the music washed through my senses. I raised my face...I could feel his powerful presence, stronger than the presence of the large audience - I could feel my Angel watching me closely from his hidden place. His music and his teachings welled up in me, blossoming forth and giving me an unknown strength that I had never felt before in my life. I opened my mouth, and began to sing.

The world ceased to exist...the dark rows of filled seats disappeared, the blindingly bright stage vanished, along with Carolus Fonta and the other actors. All that existed in that moment was the music, my Angel, and me. I sang from the depths of my soul, no longer using my voice as an instrument, but as a medium through which to transfer all that I felt. My voice rose with the swell of the strings, and I could _feel_ him watching, listening. That night, I sang for him and him only. He was the only one that mattered in the world to me...and I showed it through the power of my voice. The power that _he_ had given it.

The rest of the opera passed in a blur. I can remember acting, saying my lines and doing all that was expected of me...but only very vaguely. What I can recall more strongly was my final song; the final aria of Marguerite. It seemed as if everything - every single ounce of spiritful music - that had collected in me since my father's death was drawing itself together for this moment. The passion the Angel of Music had inspired in me brought my emotions to a crescendo as my adrenaline rose and I poured out the last song. The voice I heard when I sang - the strong, perfectly pitched and heart-breakingly passionate voice that rang through the Grande Salle - was so strange to me that I could barely believe it was my own. It was touched by an Angel, and that was enough to bring it through the ceiling as I felt the dam of repressed emotion break within me. I stood in the barrage of music that swept past me like a raging, intense river of sound, and I reached heights I had never thought achievable, even when my father was still with me. It was both terrifying and astounding to experience...and when the music stopped, I was completely drained. All the intense power that had flown from me had been spent, leaving me weak and dizzy in its wake. The applause that followed my song was immense; it seemed the entire audience was on its feet! I regret the fact that I was not able to enjoy my first great success, as a terrible light-headed faintness passed over me. Just before the intermission, when I took my bows, I suddenly felt the strangest sense of dizzy weakness - almost as if I was in a dream. My emotions were still reeling from my singing, and I could barely keep myself upright as I swooned uncontrollably. If my fellow actors had not been there to steady me, I am sure I would have fallen straight onto the stage. Not that my staying on my feet would have mattered; the audience were already quite startled by my fainting.

When finally we had finished taking our bows, the curtain fell. The last thing I remember before sinking into a faint was longing to be back to the safety of my haunted dressing-room.

* * *

I awoke, as I had so ardently wished, safe in my dressing-room. The air was wonderfully cool and free compared to the stifling heat of the stage, and there was considerably less people. I could still _hear_ people though...at first I thought it was the audience I was hearing, but then I realised that it was only the sound of a rather large crowd outside. However, my limbs were still heavy and I felt extremely light-headed from my fainting spell, so I did not pay it any heed. All I needed was rest...

'_Elle se reveille, docteur..._she's waking,' said a nearby voice. Who was waking? Me? No, I was going to sleep...

I abruptly realised that if I could hear voices, it meant that I was not alone in my dressing room. I struggled to stay conscious, and found it became easier the less I kept my eyes closed. By and by, it became apparent to me that I was not, as I had previously though, lying down completely on the couch, but rather _in somebody's arms_. I stirred, opening my eyes and seeing, to my utmost horror, that I was in the arms of none other than the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny.

There he was, blue eyes full of concern, face slightly flushed from the warmth of the Grande Salle, and looking very young indeed in his anxiety. I looked towards the other two people in the room; one was the doctor who had been called, and the other was the maid. After giving a weak, courteous smile to the doctor, I turned my face to Raoul. Although everything still seemed so dream-like, I could feel a deep sense of fear within me. _What would happen to me if the Angel noticed I was in the arms of such a gallant young man as Raoul? _How could I keep this situation from becoming worse than it already was?

My voice trembling, I played the only card available. 'Monsieur...who are you?' I whispered. I did not need to feign my disorientation; I was already nearly fainting once again from the thought of my Angel's anger. I prayed I would sink into unconsciousness before Raoul answered. However, I unfortunately did not. To my shock, Raoul knelt beside the couch he had placed me on, and kissed my hand, eyes shining with sincerity and earnest.

'My dear mademoiselle...do you not remember? I am the little boy who dived into the sea after your scarf!' he said fervently. He sounded so youthful and full of innocent candour that I could not stop a slight laugh from escaping me when the doctor, too, masked his chuckle with a cough. Even the maid was tittering, and poor Raoul's cheekbones burned a fiery red with embarrassment. He stood up quickly, his jaw set in a determined way that reminded me uncannily of when he was a boy. I could tell he was wounded by my unkindness, which made my heart throb with guilt in compassion, but he did not let it show one bit. He tilted his chin up and said with cool dignity: 'If it pleases you not to recognise your old friend, then I shall not press further with it. All I want is to speak to you, in private, if you would be so -'

I pressed a shaking hand to my forehead, the pressure inside me building as the emotions roiled within me and a malignant darkness crept around the corners of my eyes. 'I'm terribly sorry, but I would rather not...I am very tired at the moment, and I would like to rest, if you don't mind. Thank you for your kindness, I greatly appreciate it.'

'She does indeed need rest, monsieur,' the doctor agreed with me quietly. 'It would perhaps be best if you left her to recover. I shall take over from here...'

Would they never leave? Fuelled purely by my frustration, I got to my feet. 'No, I assure you, docteur, I am not ill - just a little tense. I would rather be on my own for a moment, if you will permit it. Please...I need to be alone,' I told them. I knew that only when I was alone would my Angel come and be able to comfort me. The doctor's advice and treatment would never heal me as effectively as the simple sound of the Angel's smooth voice. Surely after my success tonight, he would come! I _needed_ to make them leave first...

'But Mademoiselle Daaé -' the doctor protested, but I would not hear of it.

'_Je vous prie de m'excuser, monsieur_...but I really must insist that all of you leave. Please excuse me...' As politely as I could, given my intense agitation, I shooed the docteur and a very bemused Raoul out of my dressing room.

Ignoring my maid, I went behind my screen and proceeded to remove the constricting clasp of my costume, slipping on a dress instead. There was to be a ceremony of farewell in the foyer, which I was unsure whether I would attend. Handing my clothes to the maid - who thankfully did not ask about my strange behaviour - I sank down upon the couch.

'Are you feeling better, mademoiselle?' she asked me.

'Oh...yes, I am. I just wish to be alone, that is all,' I told her, and she bade me goodnight before leaving with my costume. As soon as she had closed the door behind her, I ran my fingers through my hair, freeing it from its pins. I was truly exhausted, but I was finally, _finally_ alone and -

'_Christine...did I not already impress upon you that you must love only _me' a terribly menacing voice hissed. I quivered, and then tears began to flow down my face. I could not take any more of this...I was already so _tired_, so _weary_ from my performance and from my hasty fending off of Raoul. I had wanted to hear words of comfort and encouragement from my dear Angel, not his cold, repressed fury.

'But I do love only you, I assure you! Can you not see it?' I wept, my voice thick and trembling with tears. 'I sang only for you tonight - I sang with all my heart and all my soul!'

When my Angel spoke again, his words were more gentle, endeavouring to calm me: '_You appear quite exhausted_.'

'I am, I am...I feel as if I have died. I gave you my soul tonight!'

'_Ah, child...there is no soul as beautiful as yours, and I thank you for it. Tonight, the angels wept...you have done well_.' Then, he was gone. I dried my tears with my handkerchief, then put on my coat. I walked over to the large, full-length mirror that hung on my wall and looked at myself in it. My face was tear-stained and ghastly, so I took up my lace veil to cover it. After doing this, I turned out the gas lamps. In the darkness that followed, I fancied I saw two golden pinpricks of light in my mirror, like the eyes of a cat or a night-creature. However, this I assumed was a reflection of the golden gas-lamps, or perhaps from the mirror's golden frame...maybe even my feverish senses playing tricks on me. I ignored it pointedly, nevertheless touching the small cross around my neck just in case the room really was haunted.

More quickly than usual, I left the room, gathering my furs around me, taking one last glance at the reflection of my pale, veiled face and the pair of yellowish incandescent lights some way above it before sweeping along the corridor and away from the dressing rooms.

* * *

**_A/N: Oh, this is just what I need...every single dotted breaker between paragraphs in every single chapter of each of my stories has been deleted. Now everything looks squashed together, and this stupid thing has suddenly started deleting the dashes I put in to separate paragraphs and point of view changes. You can probably imagine my frustration now...I have at least 21 chapters now that I shall have to re-upload individually and re-insert different kinds of breaks. Please bear with me for this...it shall be a long and painful process._**


	6. Chapter 5: An Encounter at Perros

_**A/N:**__**Wow! Three lovely reviews! Thank you very, very much to Chapucera (sigh, yes...but sad endings can be so sweet, I think :') ) , Softiful (Thanks! I've been onstage quite a fair bit myself - in fact, I'm going to be part of a performance in a couple of weeks - and so I felt quite empathic for poor Christine! It's still always the noise of the audience I remark first...and I decided to put that in.) and Chantal (mmm, nyes, that lovely darkness...:) I found that Leroux doesn't say enough about it from Christine's POV. That bit about the "golden pinpricks" came completely randomly...I felt like including some Erik-ness.). I am working through the spacing problem, and I re-uploaded and added all the new spaces into one of my other fics, so I am no longer as annoyed about that. Here is the next chapter, then...with a fainting Raoul included for good measure.**_

* * *

After that opening night, my name became known through all of Paris, it seemed. I was offered many opportunities; I was even invited to sing at the salon of the Duchesse de Zurich. On many other occasions I was invited to concerts, but these I all declined. Many found this very odd indeed, as most of the concerts were for charities I had always supported...even Meg seemed to find me a different person after the opening night, but in a negative sense. We talked less, as I rarely had the time to go and speak with her, so committed I was to my Angel. It was not only others that found me strange, either...I could not recognise myself any more than those who had previously known me. When I sang, I _was not myself_. I was always under a spell, far away from reality as the music took its hold. It was almost as if the Angel's own spirit had infiltrated itself into me, taking over my senses and changing my usual self when I sang. He was inside my mind, never to leave...

At first, the huge, sensational improvement of my voice - the power of the gift the Angel had given me - made me greatly happy to be given such a great endowment. However, as the weeks went by, I gradually began to feel less glad. I began to fear my gift - fear my own voice! Even when the invitations to concerts were sent to me, and critics praised my singing, I could no longer take their compliments. Some thought this change in my habits was due to pure, unabashed arrogance after triumphing on the stage, and others guessed I was extremely modest. The truth was, I felt scared stiff; my singing was unfamiliar, so perfect it seemed almost supernatural. I grew wary of this new voice of mine, and decided it would be better if I sang as little as possible in public. This was not as big a sacrifice for me as it may have been for others - I generally felt slightly uncomfortable singing at the salons of a high-class public. As a child, I had been far more relaxed and confident when performing in solo to great numbers outside the theatre, but this was when I had the familiar sound of Papa's violin to give me courage. Now, I only had the memory of the Angel and the voice of a stranger in my throat. How could I sing without fear anymore?

* * *

I was quite surprised when I found that the kind, generous Comte Philippe de Chagny was slipping in good words about me to the directors. Doubtlessly, this unexpected show of benevolence was influenced by Raoul, whom I had not seen since the opening night. Grateful though I was for such kindness from somebody like the Comte, I was obliged to write to him and politely tell him that I appreciated his help, but he should not continue. I did not wish for attention to be drawn to me; if I was noticed too much, I would be made to sing when I was not ready, and that I did not want to happen.

On a few occasions I glimpsed Raoul in the foyer. I took care to not let him see me, of course, but whenever I saw him I could not help but notice how wretched the poor young Vicomte looked. He was dreadfully pale and ill-looking, constantly glancing about himself in a melancholic fashion. My Angel was curiously hostile on the subject of Raoul, I found - he was quite adamant that I write that letter to the Comte and distance myself from the young man. However, when I caught sight of Raoul leaning mournfully against a wall while his brother talked concernedly to him, I felt a sensation of helplessness overwhelm me. I realised how alone I was...I rarely got a chance to talk to Meg anymore, as she was either at her ballet rehearsals or fretting over her mother, the widowed usherette Madame Giry, who was being questioned by the directors because she was apparently in contact with the Phantom. It was said she kept his box...but I did not know the details. Meg did not understand many of them herself, and she did not talk about her mother very much. Whenever Meg actually was free to talk, I would most likely be with my Angel, who continued to instruct me with his own beautiful voice. I did not have a chance to confess to Meg that I was being visited by an Angel, which meant I kept the knowledge bottled up within me. It was a hard load to bear, and I desperately needed somebody to _talk_ to about it, a friend who knew me well enough to fully believe me...

Why should I distance myself so much from Raoul? It was quite a silly idea, really; both of us had been the best of friends, so whyever should I not talk to him and share my problems and dreams with him as I had when we were children? If Raoul had been a complete stranger with an interest in me, I would not have considered coming into contact with him; but this was _Raoul_ - dear, sweet Raoul from those sunny Breton days of long ago!

My decision made, I went to my dressing room and proceeded to write a note. In this note I told Raoul to forgive me - I had most certainly not forgotten him, and that I would be going to Perros. Tomorrow would be the anniversary of my poor father's death, something I had been thinking about for some time...I would go, as usual, to his grave in Perros and sit by it, thinking of all the wonderful times we had together...

I sent the note, and decided to leave at once. I did not need to wait for a reply, as I did not expect one. Raoul would certainly follow me to Perros - at least, I hoped he would - and once there, we would be free to talk.

* * *

The following day, I had arrived safely at Perros. I had left Madame Valerius with the promise that I would return quickly, and then travelled by train and coach until I arrived at the Sunset Inn. Mère Tricard was very happy to see me, and told me that she had been wondering whether I would appear, the following day being the anniversary of my father's death. As it was evening, I retired quickly to my room, after a dinner made by Mère Tricard herself. The window of my room had a rather charming view of the bay by day, and of the shimmering expanse of sea that I was so familiar with. I remembered how my father loved the sight of that sea; whenever he became homesick he would go to sit at the beach and look at the blue water that reminded him so much of the country we had left...

When I went to bed that night, I felt troubled, but when I awoke the following morning, I felt curiously calm and serene. I went to a Mass in the nearby church, still full of that odd sensation of tranquility. The cool of the Breton church failed to wake me from this, but I found I did not mind as I left it after the ceremony. My fur coat served as protection against the coolness - and also against the icy crispness of the wintry air outside. Winter seemed to be coming early this year...

'_Child..._'

I gave a gasp at the sound of a soft voice all around and above me. The delicate beauty of its lulling tone was unmistakeable; I was hearing my Angel, here in Perros! My eyes were wide as I glanced about myself to make sure I was alone outside the church. 'Angel?' I whispered.

'_I am here_,' came the reply, sounding slightly different in the chilling air. I was so used to hearing him inside my dressing room...

Then, the Angel spoke again: '_I know the reason for your being here, and I have come to reward you for the faith you have given me. If you enter the cemetery at the toll of midnight, I shall play for you - I shall play _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ on the violin of your father!_'

I clutched my coat about me in shocked surprise. My Angel was going to reward me? His words began to sink in, and I realised what he had said. Tonight I would hear a melody my father had so often played - and from my father's very own violin! This was too marvellous to believe...

'Oh, Angel - I shall be there!' I exclaimed, but he had already left me.

* * *

After a short uphill walk, I arrived at the Sunset Inn. I was feeling quite warm, wrapped up in my fur coat, but my face was icy-cold from the glacial, salty wind that swept in from the dark-blue, restless sea. Just before I went through the door, I glanced towards the water, watching the countless little waves rolling in to shore. There were no boats out today...

I opened the door and went inside.

'...perhaps a little later -' a light male voice was saying. As soon as I stepped into the room, I noticed with a thrill that it was a certain golden-haired young gentleman I knew very well...the moment he glimpsed me, Raoul leapt to his feet, almost overturning the chair he had been sitting on, and startling Mère Tricard, who had apparently been offering him lunch. Raoul's earnest blue eyes were fixed on me, his stance curiously tense. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but made no sound. Was he so surprised to see me? I gazed back at him, unsure of what to say.

'...er, I shall be in the other room if you need me,' Mère Tricard said, breaking the silence. She seemed to think that we were in need of time alone, which we were indeed. When she had gone, though, Raoul continued to stare at me with a strange look on his handsome face. 'So you have come all the way to Perros,' I remarked quietly.

The spell keeping him frozen seemed to break, and he took a small step forwards. 'Yes, I have...I desperately wished to see you, and...I wanted to come with you to the cemetary. I hadn't realised it was the anniversary of your father's death...I do so miss the old man.'

His soft sentimentality touched me. 'I miss him, too,' I agreed heavily, and then Raoul took another step forwards.

'Christine...I really must tell you that I have not been able to stop thinking of you for a long, long time,' he told me sincerely. 'I...I find I feel a lot for you.' He lifted his chin, his eyes full of emotion, and he took my hand in both of his. My heart fluttered at such a tender gesture, but I forced myself to remember the Angel's words...and that day, years ago when we were just out of childhood, that I realised a Vicomte could never marry a poor fiddler's daughter.

To cover my pain and conflicting feelings, I smiled. 'For me? Surely not, monsieur - I believe you are trying to joke with me!' A look of pure agony crossed Raoul's face, his brow furrowing and lines appearing at the corners of his eyes that made him look suddenly much older.

'Don't laugh - I'm serious! I love you, Christine! That is the truth of it! All I can think about is you...' he said vehemently. 'Why else would I so readily follow you all the way here?' Abruptly, he frowned as a thought came to him. 'I have been lagging about at the Opera house for weeks...surely you must have seen me before opening night?' His tone was quiet and even a little hurt. I could not lie to him; I always had such difficulty lying to Raoul.

Avoiding his eyes, I looked down. 'Yes...yes, I have glimpsed you once or twice...'

'Then whyever did you not come and _speak_ to me?' Raoul cried, truly upset. I could not answer him; I did not have a reply to give. However, to my surprise, before I could begin to think of what to tell him, his face grew cold and hard, and he let go of my hand quickly. 'No...I suppose I don't need an answer; I know it already.' My eyes widened in shock - how could he know? Or at least, what did he think he knew?

'What do you know?' I asked him, voice shaking. His brow creased and his lips pursed in his pain.

'That you already have an admirer!' he said harshly. 'There is already somebody who has taken your heart, and you are too cruel to tell me - you would rather have me embarrass myself by declaring to you my vain love!'

'Don't be ridiculous, Raoul - listen to yourself! Why would I ever wish to make you ashamed? And why would you think that I have an admirer?' I countered. I could not understand his passionate accusations; what had gotten into his head?

Raoul gave an incoherent sound of frustration, running his fingers through his flaxen locks in an agitated manner. He looked straight at me with blazing eyes, and denounced: 'Because I have heard you speaking to him! I _heard_ you, after opening night, telling him so slavishly that you only sang for _him_! That is the reason why you pretended not to recognise me - your lover was in the room at the time, hidden away!'

My mouth opened from sheer outrage. 'You listened at my door?'

Raoul flushed slightly, but his jutting chin was still determined. I was appalled and terrified at the same time; I had been overheard, talking to my Angel! This was not good at all...

'Yes, I did, and I heard the man reply to you!'

I could feel my face instantly drain of colour. 'You heard him?' I asked weakly. Taken aback by my sudden horror, Raoul merely nodded.

_Oh, Raoul, if only you knew..._I felt so helpless all of a sudden, unable to tell him, unable to explain...my vision blurred as tears dribbled down my cheeks. Raoul looked quite surprised, and all the anger seemed to evaporate from him.

'Christine...?' he said uncertainly, a child again. Hesitantly, he reached out his arms to me, as if to gather me to his chest, and my own arms twitched upwards slightly in response. However, both of us remained rooted in our positions, unable to approach the other; I was stayed by the knowledge that this could make me lose my Angel, and Raoul was held back by his previous doubts about my truthfulness. Both of us longed for this embrace, but neither of us could step forwards. After a short while, I turned quickly on my heel and tripped away from my poor childhood friend, who dropped his arms and watched me climb the stairs to my room.

* * *

I remained locked in my room for some while; I could not bring myself to come out and face him. Cowardly, I know, but I felt so terribly weak in that moment. So alone...

When I finally went downstairs a few hours later, Raoul had disappeared. Mère Tricard informed me that he had gone to the cemetery, and so I immediately went there to find him. I had made up my mind; I could not bear to withhold such an important truth from a friend as dear to me as Raoul - I needed to tell him of the Angel of Music. I made my way as fast as possible to the cemetery, and when I passed through the gates, I saw him straight away. He was a dark figure against the graveyard's paleness, clad in a fine coat and standing with his hands deep in his pockets before a grave he was staring down at. The cold wind ruffled his hair and made him squint his eyes. He looked uncharacteristically severe in that moment, but curiously lonely at the same time. I thought back to the events of that morning with despair...did he really mean it when he told me that he loved me? If he had told me this when we were still children, I would have accepted it; now, however, I had my Angel and the fact that Raoul was a Vicomte to stop me. Oh, how I longed once more for those bright summer days of innocence! How I longed for that time to come again - that glorious time before we grew up, before Raoul told me painfully that he would always remember me, even if he could not marry me or openly be my friend in public. Dear Raoul...it really broke my heart to shun him in this way, when he was ignoring his social duties and obligations to tell me of his feelings.

He did not notice me as I approached him, as my footsteps were lost in the whistling of the wind over the rough tombstones, and he seemed so lost in his own thoughts.

'I see you've found my father's grave,' I said softly, and he whirled around. Seeing it was me, he relaxed and his lips curved into a melancholic smile.

'Yes, I have,' he replied. 'I wished to go to visit it...after all, I liked him so much, and I can never forget how patient he was when I tried to learn to play the violin.' I smiled too at the memory of a determined boy drawing the bow of a violin across the strings and carefully placing his fingers while I watched and clapped.

'I did so love listening to him play, too...' I sighed.

'A true virtuoso, he was, indeed,' agreed Raoul, glancing down at the tombstone. 'He had such a knack for telling stories, too...do you remember?'

I smiled nostalgically. 'How could I forget them?'

Raoul gazed into the distance, where the blue expanse of sea was just visible, dark under the drifting clouds. 'Those nights when all three of us sat by the roadside...or when it was raining so hard we sat in the attic and listened to those stories instead...I can remember some of those tales. There was the tale of the King...and the tale of Little Lotte and her Angel of Music -'

As soon as those words passed his lips, I shivered. He noticed this and frowned. 'Christine? Are you cold? You can take my coat -'

'No,' I broke in, 'I was just...' I sighed. 'I am fine.'

Raoul, however, did not believe me. 'Don't lie to me,' he reprimanded in an almost sullen manner, then appeared concerned. 'You have gone quite pale.'

I pulled my coat tighter about myself. I could not keep it to myself any longer...Raoul was somebody I could trust, a _friend_...if I declined his love, I should at least give him the privilege of knowing _why_ - or at least, partly why...

'You remember my father spoke to us of the...the Angel of Music?' I commenced shakily, feeling very cold all of a sudden.

'Yes - what of it?'

I took a deep breath and looked up at him with eyes full of sincerity. 'I have heard the Angel, Raoul. He is real, and he has visited me...he is not a fable, as I believed before.'

For a few torturous seconds, Raoul merely stared at me, standing stock-still as the wind blew over both of us. Then, he blinked. 'Ah,' was all he said.

My stomach twisted in humiliation. 'You don't believe me!' I accused him, full of hurt and outrage.

'No - no, I do believe you, Christine!' he reassured me quickly, taking my cold hands in his. 'I have heard the way you sang on opening night...I do truly believe that you have been visited by the Angel. How else could your voice have become so heavenly?'

My shoulders sagged in relieved gratitude - this had been easier than I had expected. I had anticipated a great deal of convincing on my part, but Raoul was already convinced! 'Oh, Raoul...I'm so glad that you do not think me mad...I haven't told anybody but Mamma Valerius,' I confessed. 'There were times when even I thought myself mad! I myself had difficulty believing that I heard the voice of an Angel in my dressing room -'

'In your _dressing room_?' repeated Raoul, suddenly perplexed. I frowned in confusion.

'Why, yes - that is where he gives me lessons,' I told him.

Raoul's expression was hard to discern. 'So...the voice I heard was the _Angel_'s?' he asked.

'Yes. You see? It was not a man hidden in my dressing room,' I replied, a tone of flippancy creeping into my voice.

'Have you seen this Angel?' Raoul questioned, suddenly defensive.

I bit my lip. 'No...I asked him once if he would reveal himself to me, but he became so terribly furious with me that he almost left forever...I've taken care not to bring up the subject again.'

Raoul's face looked oddly triumphant for a second, then quickly became concerned. He took me by the hands once more. 'Christine,' he said, looking frankly into my eyes, 'I think that some deceitful character is taking advantage of your innocence and trust. I truly -'

I snatched my hands away in outrage. 'So you really do doubt my words!' I cried. 'You don't believe that there is an Angel of Music! How dare you make assumptions about me being naive - you don't _know_! You haven't _heard_ the voice sing! If you heard the voice sing, you would truly know, then, that it was an Angel you were hearing!'

With that, I turned and left him, tears beginning to spill down my cheeks. How could he?

'Christine! Christine, don't go! Please!' he called after me.

I did not stop, and soon I had left him alone once more in the graveyard. I had only hoped for understanding and support - but now even my old friend did not believe me.

* * *

At a quarter to twelve, I left the Sunset Inn. Mère Tricard handed me a key in the dark front room, telling me not to lose it as I would need it to get back in. Nodding gravely, I drew my shawl closer about my shoulders and left through the door.

It was a dark, wintry night, and my lantern shed little luminescence over the path ahead of me. Far to my left, I could see the moon high above sparkling its silver radiance on the inky-black sea, just visible down the hills. I walked quickly, my footsteps crunching on the stony path. The church tower rose majestically above the hillside, its largest bell gleaming in the light of the moon hanging over the waves. It was the church of sailors and fishermen, but by night it looked as grand as any other. At my feet, short grass waved and rippled in the breeze, just like the sea - for the sea appears to be everything in Bretagne.

As I drew nearer to the graveyard, heart thumping at the prospect of hearing my Angel play a familiar, beautiful tune on my father's own violin, I seemed to enter a dream-like state once more. All I could think about was my Angel...I thought of him so intensely that I did not notice that the crunching of my shoes on the stones was echoed by a second set of footsteps. At least, I assumed it was a second pair of footsteps...it could have been my own quick steps, for all I knew or cared. It did not matter to me what I heard now...all that mattered was what I would hear very, very soon...

When I entered the cemetery, I made my way straight to my father's grave and knelt beside it. There were some small wildflowers I had found by the path and I had picked; these I laid down by the tombstone before putting down my lantern. The salty night breeze tried in vain to make my candle gutter out, but it was protected by the glass panels. I raised my head to look at the horizon. It was a darkly beautiful night, indeed...the sky was dark and unspoiled by the city lights, and the soft wind of the night stirred the branches of bare winter trees. Far off, hidden by a cluster of tall, salt-bleached trunks, the church bell began to toll. Its brassy, metallic boom rang out across the rolling hills, echoing from the tall cliffs and losing itself in the sea. Twelve knells...I counted each with anticipation as I waited silently. Here in the graveyard with the midnight bell clanging out the hour, it became startlingly easy to believe in all the strange creatures that had inhabited the tales of the Breton grandmothers Raoul and I had visited for stories. Even though I was no longer an impressionable child, in this environment I fully expected to see the korrigans dancing over the moors...in this environment, the Angel of Music reigned over all.

The last toll echoed into silence, ringing from the cliff-sides and rolling over the waves. A tense quiet replaced the sound...a tense quiet that, a few moments later, was broken by a curious noise. I say that the quiet was broken, but in fact, it was not at all broken. Breaking brings to mind clumsiness and destruction...it was not at all that. The sound that I heard did not break the silence; rather it slid in smoothly, like a sharp, gliding knife. I raised my face to the moon in pure, silent ecstasy as the sound was followed by another, and I realised that I was hearing the unmistakable sound of my father's violin.

I could recognise that particular timbre anywhere - that distinct quality the aged wood gave the music. Even though I could not perceive the source of the melody, I could almost see the long, flowing scrape of the bow against the four taut strings, see a hand with dexterous, quick-moving fingers move from position to position on the neck. A memory of jerking elbows and long swinging movements of the upper body came to me; I remembered teasing my father as a young girl about how much he moved when he played. 'Stand up, child,' he had said. When I obliged, he told me: 'Walk across the room, now, without moving your arms.' I did so, finding it very difficult. 'It feels strange,' I said. He replied to me 'Exactly!', and began to play once again.

Now as I sat listening, I closed my eyes. I had never heard such passionate music...my father had never played with an intensity such as this. The melody sounded almost _violent_in some parts, but even then the fleetness of the invisible violinist's fingers made this sound indescribably beautiful. The rendition of _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ echoed around the graveyard, and even the strong wind was unable to carry the sound away. I listened in delighted awe...each note affected me in such a way that the tune could have been played on my heartstrings for all the ecstasy I felt.

When all too soon the music ended, I sat still for a long time afterwards...so long that the church bell tolled again. It was only when the brassy sound rang out clearly and sharply that I rose from my reverie, and whispered my thanks to my Angel, before leaving the graveyard with shaking legs.

* * *

The next morning, I was shaken awake by a distressed Mère Tricard. The sun had not properly risen yet, and she held a small candle in her hand. 'Mademoiselle Daaé...your friend is in a bad state,' she said to me, sounding quite worried. 'I went outside to open the shutters and I saw two men coming up the hill, carrying your friend the Vicomte between them. He's downstairs, and he is still out cold. They told me they found him propped up on the steps of the church's altar...'

I hastened to dress and go downstairs. Raoul was lying on the rickety couch by the fire; his skin was frightfully pale and his lips were blue with cold. I knelt beside him and took his hand. His slack fingers were frozen! I rubbed them to warm them, watching his still face. He was unconscious, and if he had been left out in the cold for longer he would most probably have died.

'When did he leave the Inn?' I asked Mère Tricard worriedly. She shrugged, eyebrows raised.

'I did not realise he had been gone,' she told me perplexedly. 'I never heard him leave; the door did not open.'

I looked back at Raoul. He looked very sickly indeed. It was obvious he had been outside; there were flecks of mud on his boots, and the state of his fine jacket suggested he had been dragged across the ground. What had he been doing? How had he become unconscious? I had no idea; the first step would be to revive him.

'Raoul,' I whispered, leaning forwards and touching his face gently while Mère Tricard hung nearby nervously, wringing her apron. I noticed Raoul had tiny flakes of ice clinging to his hair, brows and thin moustache. I cupped his cold cheek in my palm, murmuring his name again. 'Raoul, wake up. _Reveille-toi..._'

After a long while and some valuable help from Mère Tricard, Raoul's eyes flickered open and he fixed me with a startled blue gaze. 'Oh! Oh...Christine...' he breathed, still looking quite ill.

'What happened, Raoul?' I asked him, full of concern...and then something occurred to me. 'Did you follow me?' I whispered, suddenly worried for different reasons. Had my jealous Angel perhaps remarked his presence and punished him for intruding upon our private moment?

Raoul did not reply, still under a state of shock, it seemed. He drew a shuddering breath, eyes unfocusing. 'It was _horrible_...deathly and demonic!' he whispered shakily, eyes wide and staring as if he was overcome by a memory.

'What?'

'I followed it into the church...I managed to catch hold of the edge of its cloak - and it turned! It turned and fixed me with its burning eyes of yellow hell-fire!' Raoul was trembling uncontrollably now. 'The ghastly _tête de mort_ was just staring...staring at me! And...I...I was overcome...I fainted from the terrible sight...I let go of its cloak...oh, Christine...'

'Delirious,' I heard Mère Tricard murmur, and I nodded grimly in agreement. Raoul did not seem to care, as he clutched his forearms and closed his eyes wearily. What on earth was he gibbering about? What was all this talk of death's-heads and hell-fire? I had no idea whatsoever.

One thing, however, was clear: there seemed to have been something sinister in the graveyard that night. I was more than fully thankful that I had had my Angel there to protect me from that terrifying vision Raoul had seen...I was most thankful indeed!


	7. Chapter 6: A Displeased Phantom

_**A/N:**__**Argh...just as I complete this chapter nice and early something happens to my Internet...oh, well, I have the following chapter almost done so you definitely won't have to wait ages again!**_

_**And wow! **__**Four**__**more reviews! I never expected to get so many so soon...(jumps for joy). Big thanks to kristalinda (aww! Really? That's so sweet of you! hugs And I won't be abandoning this one...), Chantal (heehee, it seems you're my regular reviewer! I got the base of Raoul's jealous tantrum from Leroux's novel, and added a few of my own touches ;)...) Verify Me (Oh well, at least I do get some reviews! And you're reviewing, so that's a start. You **__**will**__**get a little bit of Erik at the end of this chapter...and next chapter is going to be almost entirely Erik-centered. Heeheehee...), and TawnyLeaf (I re-read it obsessively. Oooh, hard question…I normally stick to dark-haired Christine, but a blonde Christine would make more sense, seeing as she's Swedish, and Swedish people are normally fair-haired. On the front cover of the little book of Phantom of the Opera sheet music I got for Christmas, there's a picture of Sarah Brightman, and she doesn't look very flattering…I think it will suffice to say that her eyes are a bit wide…glad you like my story !).**_

_**I'll try and update as soon as possible, but it's going to be a busy week; I went to a prom on Friday, which means I'm knackered already, and I've only just come back from a full-day rehearsal...then tomorrow there's another rehearsal, a show the day after, and then two more shows on Wednesday...shudder. I'll see whether I can fit in a bit of writing-and-updating time somewhere...in the meantime: enjoy!**_

I thought a lot about the events Raoul had disjointedly recounted, and I came to the conclusion that if my Angel was capable of sending such a fearsome vision to him, he was capable of doing harm to my old friend. The last thing I wanted was lasting damage done to Raoul - if he was not already scarred from what he had seen - and so I left Perros without him, as soon as possible. Once back home, I sent him a letter telling him that it would be better for both of our sakes if he stayed away from me, and under no circumstances approached my dressing room. I dreaded the thought of something happening to Raoul...I did not like the idea that my Angel could take action against any potential earthly distraction of mine without warning me. Raoul had almost died of cold that night after he had fainted, and I did not wish anything like that to happen to him again. Although it pained me, I wanted him to stay safe...and I also was fearful of what would happen if my Angel turned his new sinister side on _me_.

* * *

The second performance of _Faust_was looming. I had not heard a lot from my Angel, but I assumed this was because he was punishing me for bringing Raoul along to Perros. What was more, Carlotta had recovered from her mysterious bout of bronchitis, and made her presence known. All mentions of me vanished from newspapers; I was outdated news material now, it seemed, an insignificant shadow in the light of La Carlotta. She had been adamant to take back the role of Marguerite as soon as possible, for she was mortified that I, a simple Swedish chorus girl, had taken her place.

With Carlotta's return, I found myself the subject of suspicion and dislike. The reason for this was that Carlotta had been receiving mysterious notes, written in a child-like hand and red ink, all of them threatening in content. Apparently, the Spanish diva was convinced that I - or my admirers, if I had any! - was the source of these warning messages, as she though I wanted to keep my temporary position as leading lady at the Opera. Once I found this out, I kept as low a profile as possible, for I knew I would be no match for Carlotta if she chose to lose her temper against me. It was not cowardice that drove me to this, but a knowledge that if even more stress was put on my poor weary mind, I would go mad with grief and loneliness. Not that I was intentionally a strong rival of Carlotta; I had peacefully settled for the role of Siebel - even though I knew my Angel would not like my submission.

Curiously, the Opera's Phantom was becoming agitated. I heard more and more stories of supernatural mishaps ocurring, most at the expense of the directors or the staff. Then, one day, when I went down to the Opera's stables with a handful of sugar lumps for my favourite stage-trained horse kept there - a habit I had acquired whenever I needed the simple company of an equine friend - I was told by a perplexed stableboy that _the horse had been stolen, by the Phantom_! At first it was hard to believe, but the place in the stable that should have been occupied by the fine, well-groomed white horse known as César was empty, and there was no trace of the creature! It seemed impossible that a semi-legendary being as the Phantom could spirit away a horse as large as César...but then again, strange things did happen...

I was quite saddened by the loss of the horse...and it seemed that I was not the only person saddened. I found Meg later that day, quite upset, because her mother had been literally kicked out of the directors' office and lost her job! I comforted Meg as best I could, telling her that Richard and Moncharmin were probably just under stress from all of the recent occurrences, and were sure to give Madame Giry her job as usherette back when everything blew over. But Meg told me they had already appointed a new usherette - a concierge who would be attending the performance of _Faust_ the following night. Lately everything seemed to be going to pieces around me...when would everything just go back to normal?

I knew, however, that this would never be possible. What "normal" _was_ there to go back to, when all was said and done?

* * *

That second performance of _Faust_was even more eventful than the first, but in an entirely negative way. Just before the actual performance, there was a strange, ominous atmosphere in the Opera house. It was like the heavy calm before a storm; I felt nervous about what would follow this treacherous peace. Some said the Phantom had been displeased, and the Richard and Moncharmin were mad to stage _Faust_while he was so angry...however, this did not stop everything going as rehearsed. The Grande Salle filled, and soon the curtain was raised and the opera began.

Carlotta's entrance was greeted by a bout of applause from her many admirers in the audience. She sang with all her talent, and her voice sounded so wonderful that I felt hopeless. Her singing was all her own, not influenced in any way by an Angel's hypnotic powers...whereas mine was touched by a force I was afraid to explore. When she finished the lines of her song, she was met with more rapturous applause, and soon after, it was my cue to enter the stage. I did not have any part to say immediately, so I quickly glanced about the audience. Even slightly blinded by the stage-lights, I could just about distinguish Richard and Moncharmin themselves sitting smugly in Box Five - the notoriously haunted box - and on the other side...

My heart stuttered in my chest. Sitting in a box opposite was none other than Raoul de Chagny, with his elder brother Philippe. The Comte looked oddly bad-tempered and was directing disapproving looks at me, while Raoul appeared more melancholy than ever.

I was so absorbed I very narrowly missed my cue, but I quickly found my place. However, the sight of poor Raoul's sadness - his mere _presence_ near me - seemed to counteract the Angel's power over me, and my voice trembled in my throat. I sang nowhere _near_as wonderfully as I had on the previous performance - it was just as if I had never sang then at all. My singing was as emotionless and dull as it had always been prior to the Angel's appearance...I could sense the audience's incredulity, and I was ready to die with humiliation when my painful song drew to a close. The directors looked most mortified too - for giving me such a good role when I sounded like any common chorus girl. Shamefully, I ground through the rest of the scene, trying to cover up my humiliation.

Then, something incredible happened, even more shocking than my sudden lack of vocal emotion.

* * *

I felt sorry for her; I truly did. I and the hundreds of Parisians who had come to see the diva's triumphant return stared at the prima donna as she stood, just as nonplussed as everyone else, stock-still on the stage. Everybody in the Grande Salle was frozen in shock of what they had just heard; even Carlotta was thunderstruck. Silence was absolute after that single, terrible sound - the sound no singer wants to produce onstage in her lifetime. I had no idea how something like that could have happened; the poor woman had been singing, just as exuberantly as always, and then she made the most awful croaking sound that caused the orchestra to stumble to a halt.

Nobody in the audience laughed. It was too sad a thing to laugh at, for all the conoisseurs of the Opera and its ways knew that when a singer croaked, that was the end of her career. To think that Carlotta had risen to such heights from her alleged street-corners in Spain, only to have such a shameful occurrence happen to her onstage...

The silence was long and painful, and was broken when Monsieur Richard up in Box Five cleared his throat, then motioned with his hand for the diva to continue. White-faced and near panic, we all watched as Carlotta began to sing again, accompanied by the orchestra. Her voice swelled with her confidence when nothing happened for some time - her singing seemed just as perfect as usual. But alas, just as she reached the final lines and Carolus Fonta was readying himself to sing, another loud croak escaped her, even more sonorous and ungainly than the last. Carlotta's gloved hands flew up to cover her mouth, her face beginning to crumple slightly from the tears of horror and humiliation that were glistening in her eyes. This time, there was no silence; the audience set up a great tumult as the poor woman stood frozen and broken on the stage, alone in the glare of the stage-lights, stiff and refusing to remove her hands from her face. I looked up at Box Five in time to see the directors collapse in their seats, shaking their heads in confusion and shock.

Then, out of the hubbub, there arose a most curious sound. On the edge of hearing, there was somebody laughing hysterically. Gradually, the manic laughter grew louder and louder until everybody in the audience could hear it. All of us except for the trembling Carlotta looked around in shock, for there was no sign of the man who was laughing. Even when the audience fell silent and began to murmur in confusion and wariness, the laughter still rose, growing more and more vibrant as it echoed eerily through the Grande Salle.

The power of this voice, this glorious and mocking laugh, was so strong that it seemed to shake the floor. In fact, the sound appeared to be shaking the ceiling, too, for the chandelier was beginning to rock and tilt most precariously. Worried eyes were turned upwards as a deep clanking and groaning filled the air, making a grim accompaniment to the otherworldly laughter. Ghostly, shimmering clouds of dust fell from the ceiling as the clanking grew louder, and then -

It happened so fast I barely had time to blink, let alone react. All of a sudden the great chandelier was suspended, and then, it unexpectedly plummeted, straight downwards _into the audience_. The air was filled with screams and yells as the once-civilised Paris elite forgot their airs and graces and ran as fast as they could from the path of the falling chandelier. Some however, had less quick reactions, and as the huge chandelier came down with all of its candles streaming upwards with forbidding glory, they were lost from view as it hit the ground with a colossal crash. Five hundred pounds of metalwork crumpled from the impact, right on top of an area of the audience that had been just beneath it. In the confusion that followed, I looked towards the Comte's box in panic. I thanked God that Raoul had been in that box instead of in the audience down below, for I would have despaired if there was a possibility of Raoul being one of the chandelier fall's victims.

There was no time to stand around and wait; the stage had been cleared and people were running everywhere. I could only think of one place to go, and that was my dressing room.

* * *

I arrived in my dressing room scared out of my wits. The Angel of Music had told me in his cryptic manner that he would be attending the performance, and I was deeply worried, because the chandelier's fall had obviously been provoked by the Phantom. If the Angel had been there, he surely would have prevented the Phantom from doing such an action...Had he not told me before that he could easily keep the Phantom at bay? Had something happened to the Angel, if he let the Opera Ghost make such a horrendous disaster happen? Innocent people's _lives_were involved...the chandelier had come down right upon the place where the concierge - Madame Giry's replacement - was seated. The Angel could not have let something like that happen...

'Angel?' I called hesitantly. 'Angel, answer me! Are you here?'

Silence. No answering voice replied me, my helpless voice ringing out pathetically into an empty room.

Tears of despair filled my eyes. I locked the door and then leant against it. 'Please!' I entreated. 'If you are still alive, show yourself now! I beg you!' I began sobbing uncontrollably, near hysterics as the horror of the disaster I had just seen began to dawn upon me. If the Angel - if _anyone_! - was not there to console me...if I had nobody to talk to...I felt I would go mad!

Then, all of a sudden, my gas-lamps guttered out, plunging my dressing room into an immediate and forbidding darkness. My heart leapt with fear in my chest, my crying abruptly replaced by a single, stunned hiccough of shock. I dared not make a sound, for I feared the worst - I feared that the Angel had left, and now the Phantom had free reign over all the Opera house...including my dressing room.

Panic and fear seized me, as I was now locked in a dark room, by my self with a malicious and sinister ghost that had just dropped a chandelier onto an audience, killing and injuring many. I fumbled with the key in the lock, but I was in such a frenzy of fear that the blasted thing refused to turn, which made me even more terrified. I wept in fear, banging on my door and calling out for somebody, anybody to help me...but everybody in the building was bound to be occupied with the disaster that had just occurred, and unable to hear my cries. I was about to try the lock again when I turned and saw two points of amber-gold light shining in the dark shape of my mirror on the other side of the room.  
There was something about those unsettling pinpricks of luminescence that mesmerised me, for I could find no light source that could be causing the reflection. I stared at the twin points of light, and saw them flicker slightly.

'_Come to me, child..._'

A voice, soft and purring and irresistible, sounded out from those two points of light in my mirror. My foot stepped forwards of its own volition, and my body had no choice but to follow it. Again, I heard the powerfully mesmerising voice murmur to me:

'_Come...come...Approche, n'aie pas peur...Viens à moi...come to me..._'

The voice echoed intensely in a strange melody, pulling me forwards. I walked across my dressing room, lost in the spell this voice cast over me, coming nearer and nearer to the yellow pinpricks that blazed away inside my mirror...

I reached the mirror. Then, a blast of cold air, the two points of light reflected several times all around me -

And I was gone.


	8. Chapter 7: The Angel's Revelations

_**A/N:**__** Heehee, quick updating or what? Thanks to Verify Me (The musical/movie is a huge characterisation in some parts...Carlotta may have been unpleasant, but she had fans - and it wouldn't be like a Parisian audience to laugh at her career going down the toilet so horribly. I agree with you completely!), TawnyLeaf (yeah, you're right…I checked and the photo is really, really old…I love her voice, though. It's got a nice vibrato…I know last chapter was short, very sorry about that. This one is longer!) and Softiful (Indeed it does!).**_

_**Well, here 'tis, then…**_

* * *

It was as if the entirety of the world I knew had completely vanished all around me as I stood trembling in the sudden, cold darkness. My dressing room had disappeared, along with all that was familiar to me; all I could see through this strange, chilly blackness was a faint red glow far ahead. I had arrived so suddenly in this new environment that briefly I wondered whether I had died. However, I was still conscious, still breathing...

Then where on earth was I? The last thing I remembered was following the voice, walking to my mirror -

Suddenly, something deathly-cold and horrendously long and bony wrapped itself around my wrist, making me cry out in shock and horror. I tried to pull away, but all in vain, for the hand - for hand it was - did not relinquish its hold on me. I barely had time to ponder who the owner of this icy cold hand was, as a second later something moved behind me and put a strong arm beneath my knees, lifting me up. Blind though I was in this darkness, I felt the world tip on its side as whoever it was held me in their arms, my feet dangling over the person's left arm. I could tell from the distance I had been lifted that I was in the arms of a rather tall person, who was frightfully bony but still physically strong. The chest my side was now pressed against was unnaturally firm beneath the softening layers of fabric I could feel. An all-consuming fear gripped me; I was so terrified at the fact that I was being led away through impenetrable darkness by a strange man - for the person's build was that of a man - that I found my throat frozen. Even if I had cried out, who would have heard me? I could not recognise where I was, for it was far too dark. I could not say whether there actually _was_ anybody about to hear me if I screamed!

I struggled with all my heart then against the man who was walking briskly with me in his arms. This had a disappointing effect, for all he did was curl his arms tighter about me to still my movements, never halting his quick pace. For a kidnapper, I was surprised at how delicately he placed his long hands upon me, at how carefully he handled me even when I struggled. I had always thought a lady-snatcher would handle captives more roughly...I found myself bemusedly wondering why I had not been simply flung over this man's shoulder like a sack or knocked unconscious to stop me from struggling and crying out. I had not even been given chloroform...it seemed that this kidnapper was loath to do any harm me, for some bizarre reason. I found myself being carried away in the politest way possible.

The red glow grew brighter, until suddenly I recognised where we were...beneath the Opera house, there were great furnaces in the huge cellars that I had only fleetingly explored. These furnaces, with their soot-blackened, intimidating workers, were the deepest place I had ventured to when I had made a tour of the building. I found the darkness too deep and frightening here, and I greatly preferred the higher reaches of the Opera.

As we approached and went past the light of the furnaces, my captor ceased to be a dark, indistinct shape. Instead, I could now see that he was a tall, thin man shrouded in a fine black cloak with a high collar. I immediately looked to his face, only to see that it was covered by a pale mask that only showed his eyes. And every time a shadow passed across us or the red glow lessened in intensity, those eyes gleamed a pale yellow...just like the soft, strange lights I had seen in my mirror.

For how long the man walked with me in his arms, I cannot tell. All I was aware of were the long, flowing strides he took as we left the red glow far behind. He seemed to be curiously at ease in the darkness; it appeared that he knew exactly where he was going in the gloom. Gradually I sensed that we were descending in a spiral, deeper and deeper into the ground. I despaired; it seemed as if he was taking me to he very depths of the earth, for all I knew. Would I ever see the light of day again? Would I ever feel the sun upon my face? ...would I ever have a chance to apologise to Raoul for my cruel conduct towards him?

I found that the man had abruptly stopped. Again, with surprising gentleness, I was put down on a raised stone. Nearby, water gurgled...it sounded very much like a small fountain, but I could see only dim shapes. The man had left me, but I could still feel the intensity of his presence close by. I heard a soft whistle, which was followed by an answering clopping noise - which sounded very much like wood or metal striking stone sharply - growing steadily louder. I sat up and watched in fear as a large, strange shape approached rapidly and stopped near the shadow that was the man. There was a gentle murmur from the latter, and the strange creature turned its great head to meet the hand raised to pat it. As the animal gave a small snort, I realised: it was a _horse_! But what would a horse be doing here, deep down under the ground? I was perplexed, but then again, the night had been so out of the ordinary that I was very much prepared to believe anything I saw.

The man turned to me, and then bent to help me to my feet. Even though his hands were icy on my skin, I knew that if I ran now I would not know where to go...whereas _he_ certainly did, and would be able to catch me quickly. I decided it was best to obey this man: just because he was being civil at the moment did not mean he could not change. I made no sound as he lifted me onto the horse, which shifted its weight beneath me as I clung on. A familiar whinny came from the animal, and I gasped as I realised: 'César?' I murmured. There was no doubt about it; I had just been placed upon the horse that had disappeared from the stables! Thoughts began to form in my mind...if this horse was indeed César, then what proof did I have that the mysterious man now leading him along was the one who had stolen the creature in the first place - the Phantom?

But was the Phantom not supposed to be just that - a phantom? How could a ghost have taken me all the way down here? Unless...this man was _thought_ to be the Phantom...

'Who are you?' I whispered shakily, weak with my fear. The dark shape leading César through the black passages did not reply, but I thought I heard a small yet distinctly melancholic sigh.

* * *

I had learnt some while ago that dear Raoul was to embark on a rather perilous voyage aboard a ship headed for one of the Poles in half a year's time. I always imagined one needed quite a bit of courage to board a wooden vessel floating over deep water miles from any land...I myself preferred to look on at nautical activities from a distance.

You can probably envision my horror, therefore, when César reached a small, rickety pier jutting out into what must have been a large, icy cold underground lake, with the dim shape of a boat tethered to one of its supporting posts. Now, beneath the ground in the presence of a masked man with a touch like a skeleton's, I had no doubt whatsoever that even the most well-experienced sailor would pale in fear at the prospect of getting into that little boat floating serenely on the unnaturally still, inky-black waters that lay deep under the streets of Paris. I summoned what strength I had to struggle against the man's skeletal grip, but he easily overpowered me, holding me so tightly to his unsettlingly cool chest that I could make no movement. The thick material of his cloak - which was also slightly damp from the air and cold because of the apparent lack of body heat to warm it - was pressed against my cheek, my arms pinioned to my sides as he stilled me with dreadful calm. I heard him give a low whistle, and César obediently turned, cantering away until he was lost in darkness. I watched after him in despair; my only shred of familiarity had gone, and I was now left entirely alone with my captor.

I had never felt so utterly helpless before...this awful sinking sensation of being lost in the darkness made me struggle with renewed vigour against the man's tight hold. I cried out and wrenched myself from him repeatedly with all my might, summoning every last ounce of strength left within me to make a break for freedom. In that instant, I did not care that if I did escape, I would be lost in endless night...all I wanted was to leave this sinister, tall figure who did not speak far behind.

A golden ray of hope dawned on me as I found him begin to tire slightly of keeping me immobile; perhaps he was not as strong as I had first believed? Filled with conviction now, I lashed out with elbows and feet wildly, knowing that the harder I fought, the sooner he would lose his grip -

My right elbow connected with something cold and hard, that cracked loudly. The man gave a sharp, bestial hiss of pain and fury, his head jerking back. As his thin but wiry arms relinquished their hold on me, his bony hands flying to his face, I seized my chance and scrambled across the low slope, away from the boat, away from my captor -

Fingers lashed themselves around my wrist, pulling me back with fierce brutality. I fell against the man's unyielding frame, terrified at the sheer rage he emanated. Another hand clamped something to my nose and mouth; I had read accounts of this form of subduction, and very knew well what it was. I tried not to breathe in the chemical, but the man's furious strength made sure that when my lungs failed me I had no choice but to inhale the chloroform. My eyes watered and I felt a light-headed weakness steal over me as I began to slump limply against him. Only when he was sure that I was completely submissive did the man take the cloth away from my face. My head lolled and I fought to stay conscious as he began to haul me across the pier and towards the boat. I could hear him panting heavily, his thin chest heaving with laboured breaths. This gave me a tiny shred of satisfaction, seeing that he was a normal man after all, with limits to his otherwise formidable strength. My struggling appeared to have made him thoroughly out of breath, and I was certain from the crack I had heard when I had lashed out that I had broken something of his. My elbow still throbbed dully from the impact.

I was placed in the boat quickly, and the man stepped in after me, taking up a pair of oars from the bottom. There was a faint splash as these oars were put into the black water - so black and still it looked like empty air in the darkness of the subterranean cavern - and the man began to row strongly, propelling us away from the shore we had struggled on.

I lay despondent and feeble on the floor of the boat, feeling the vessel's prow part the inky water and effortlessly glide across the lake's glassy surface. The man sat facing me, which meant he kept his sinister stare on me all the while. I could still see those yellow glimmers fixed upon my weak and submissive self as he rowed, and I wondered detachedly where he was taking me now. I did not want to think about what he would do to me once we had reached our destination...

There was little point of me clinging on to my consciousness; even if I roused myself enough to endeavour another escape, there was nowhere I could go - we were surrounded by water, and I did not know how deep it was, nor how far we were from the nearest bank. In the impenetrable blackness, we could have been gliding over a huge, deep lake the size of Montmartre just as easily as we could have been drifting across a shallow pool of collected underground water. As the man had effectively sealed off any means of escape for me, I found the only thing to do was to sink into unconsciousness and hope never to wake again...

* * *

It was with great dismay that I found myself groggily opening my eyes to find myself being carried across a different bank, leaving the boat tied to another small pier. I closed my eyes against the tears. Where was my Angel now, when I needed him so desperately?

'Please...please let me go...' I whispered softly, weeping with dejection at my current state. The man carrying me did not answer me, as I had fully expected. I kept my eyes firmly shut, hoping to wake and find this was nothing but a nightmare produced by a fevered imagination -

A sudden glow of light shone upon my eyelids. My eyes flew open in shock, and I immediately squinted in the light of a dozen lit candelabra and gas-lamps. A gasp escaped me as I looked about, completely disorientated.

I had been neatly placed on my trembling feet in the middle of a perfectly ordinary - if not a little eccentric - drawing-room, that could have belonged to any house in any city! There was an intricately carved couch, a spindly desk with a high-backed chair at it, huge bookshelves that covered one entire wall, and a low table covered in sheets and sheets of musical scores. Upon the walls there hung items that looked as if they had come from many far-flung countries, and an exotic array of Eastern mementos stood on every bare surface. I stared about in wonder, and then suddenly became aware once more of the presence behind me. I turned, full of wariness. I was not sure whether I had the strength to resist him this time, and I was completely thrown by how we had been deep underground one moment and then in a drawing-room the next. What was even more unsettling was the absence of windows, and the fact that there was no visible front door.

The man was standing with his arms by his sides, his shoulders hunched a little in the slightly stooped manner that most tall men have as he looked down at me. He was a magnificent yet somewhat macabre figure; in the light of the drawing-room I could now see clearly the black sweep of his high-collared cloak, and the dark sheen of his coal-black locks in contrast with his white mask. My eyes widened as I saw what damage I had inflicted upon him when we had grappled on the shore of the lake. The fine white mask that he wore had splintered down the middle, a web of cracks fanning out from the split that ran from the bridge of the nose to the chin. Unfortunately, the crack was not wide enough for me to see under the mask, for me to discover the man's identity...but nonetheless I could see he had sufferred for dragging me down here against my will. Blood, thick and scarlet-red, trickled through the larger cracks, also collecting at the mask's edge and dripping onto the carpet from some wound inflicted underneath. I wondered grimly whether I had broken his nose, or caused a shard of the mask to tear at his skin when it shattered. The man, however, did not seem to care about his injury, merely staring at me as the blood dripped from the edge of his mask onto the floor. I stared back fearfully, then my eyes were caught by a red drop welling from a crack. I watched it as it swelled, and then slowly ran down the immaculate surface of the mask, leaving a garish red trail along the whiteness. It ponderously travelled downwards, until it reached the very rim of the mask, where it shivered on the verge of falling. The man noticed my eyes on his chin, and raised his frightfully pale hand to wipe away the blood there. He looked down at the red streak now across his fingers, and then looked up at me. I was terrified; now he had seen the extent of the damage I had done him, would he take his revenge? Trembling uncontrollably, I met his gaze with fear.

Then, for the first time, he spoke:

'You have no reason to fight me, Christine. Here with me, you are safe.'

For the second time I gasped, but in horror. At first I had thought, for one glorious second, that my Angel had come and was advising me once more...but then I realised, with a leaden sensation of utter distress in the pit of my stomach, that the Angel of Music's voice - the voice I had heard and obeyed for over three months - was coming from behind the blood-streaked mask's split, immobile white lips.

So he was right...my poor childhood friend Raoul was perfectly right when he had so worriedly told me that he thought the Angel was just a man taking advantage of my sorry, naive self. To think how coldly I had pushed Raoul away to cling instead to the waking dream that was the Angel of Music - a waking dream that had now proved to have been a mere illusion. Now I was paying for my gullible beliefs in the worst way possible: discovering that there _was_ no Angel of Music after all, no celestial guide to gift me with heavenly song. It had only been a _man_...a man so cowardly he would not even show me his face after deceiving me so mercilessly!

The fear in my eyes had rapidly turned to pain. 'So _yours_ was the voice that spoke to me for the past three months?' I asked. '_Yours_ was the voice I followed?

Silent again, the man nodded. Near tears, I glared at him in outrage.

'Are you satisfied, now my simple faith has been mocked?' I demanded with steely coldness. 'Or do you wish to pull me apart even further?'

The man came towards me. Was that _compassion_ I saw in his freakishly amber-gold eyes? He reached out as if to take my hands, but when I backed away from the icy touch of his skeletal, scarred fingers, he let them drop again.

'Christine...' he murmured gently. '_Christine_...you are very tired. You must sleep now...you are far too weary for more talking.' I was about to protest, when he suddenly began to croon a soft, haunting melody that reached into the very depths of my soul, filling my veins with liquid music and making my eyelids grow heavy. I tried to fight it at first, then realised that my resistance was futile. The calming waves of his song made me float away from the grim shores of reality and out into the ocean of dreams that he wove. I felt his arms take hold of me before I collapsed onto the floor of the drawing-room, and I was powerless to resist as he carried me away into a different room. I was aware of being placed on a bed...a bed with a thick quilt that was pulled over my body, still cold from the subterranean chill. He continued to hum his song to me...what strange manner of man was he, to possess such an overpowering voice? The restfulness he chose to invoke in me rose once more, and I soon fell into a deep sleep, the world around me ceasing to matter for a blissful period of time...

* * *

'I see you have woken,' the man remarked quietly without turning, as I ventured from the Louis-Philippe bedroom I had just roused myself in. My anger had gone; in its place, there was a dejected despondency that made my heart heavy. I was beginning to accept what had occurred to me, and that the Angel of Music was nothing but a fable.

I hovered near the doorway, very much reluctant to approach him. Given that I still did not know who this man was, I felt more comfortable standing by the doorframe with my arms crossed protectively. I was at a loss what to do; I wanted to shout at this man, to attack him and rip away the new mask he had fastened upon his face, not caring that I was stuck in his underground apartments...but at the same time, I felt strangely compassionate for him. Although I could not place it exactly, there was an odd sense of sadness and solitude about him...as if he was a man more used to being alone and caring for himself, who had spent years on his own and as a result was always tense and ready to fight or flee. I watched him for a minute more, then asked:

'What am I to call you, monsieur, now that I can see you are no Angel?'

If he caught the veiled insult, he did not show it - even if he did, his face was covered by the new black mask that he wore. Instead, he turned his head to one side a little, hands behind his back. I noticed the cloak had been removed, and he was wearing a rather fine dinner jacket.

'I have been called many different names in my lifetime,' he told me in a measured tone. 'But the least disagreeable, I suppose, would probably be "Erik".'

Erik? I knew of nobody with that name...I had been indirectly asking for him to tell me his identity with his name, but it appeared that I had not met this man before. Yet if I had never met him, did this mean a complete stranger to me had stolen me away? Even though he had pretended to be the Angel of Music, this Erik was entirely unknown to me...

'Are you Scandinavian, then? You have a Scandinavian name...' I asked, aiming for politeness but also interested in whether this man and I shared something in common.

However, Erik shook his head. 'I have no nationality. I do not know of my family's origins...nor is "Erik" my real name. I was not given one, you see, so I took that one by accident...'

Mystery, mystery and more mystery! My questions seemed to get no answers, only open further questions. Erik appeared to be replying in riddles...

Seeing me perplexed, he changed the subject. 'While you were asleep, I bought you all that you will need,' he told me calmly, indicating a heap of boxes piled on the couch. 'I made sure you have a full wardrobe.'

I blinked, then looked at him in horror. 'For...for how long will you be keeping me here for?' I whispered fearfully. The mask's blank face turned to me.

'You are welcome to stay as long as you want, _ma chère_ Christine...I wish only for you to be happy,' Erik said earnestly, the light from the candles and lamps reflecting eerily from his pupils, the black briefly gleaming gold like a cat's as the light hit it. My heart swelled with hopefulness at the prospect of leaving whenever I wished.

'Then I would like to be returned to my dressing room _now_,' I demanded immediately, but I was answered by a soft sigh that filled me with dread.

'Forgive me...but I am afraid I cannot do that,' he told me gently. I was outraged.

'You said to me a moment ago that you wished me to be happy!' I reminded him. 'I would be very happy indeed if I could leave now.'

Erik's yellow eyes regarded me with a pity that was almost aggravating. 'Forgive me, Christine,' he repeated, 'I _do_ want to see you happy...but is there not my own happiness in question as well?' These words would normally have sounded sinister to me, but he said them with such soft sadness that I could only look at him in horrified pity. He lifted his gaze to meet mine. '_I_ do not want you to leave me, Christine...I am usually quite alone, down here. Can you not muster enough courage to stay for a little while with your poor Erik? As a guest? He would make sure you are happy...he would make sure that you do not come to any harm. Is it really so much to ask for?' He was on his knees now, looking up at me entreatingly with such quiet melancholy in his voice that I found myself completely unable to answer.

Then, after a moment of silence, he gave a terrible, deep sigh of defeat that made me feel the most unexpected wrench of guilt towards this pathetic figure kneeling before me. It was odd how he could be overpowering and full of a dark, majestic force one minute and then submissive and heart-rending the next. This was definitely not a kidnapper like any other; a captor does not drag his captive down to his underground home and then plead for her to stay with him...

'If it is truly so difficult for you to willingly stay with Erik for a while, then I suppose I have no choice,' he told me with dreadful disappointment. Then there was a worrying gleam in his eyes. 'Let me first sing for you, at least...'

As soon as the first note escaped from behind the mask, I was lost. There was no way I could leave him now. His song was so full of sorrow and lamentation that it made me weep quietly as he sang on, sure now that I was powerless to insist on being taken back.

His beautiful, heartfelt lament continued until it drew to a soft close, and I was left feeling utterly wretched. How could I abandon this man now? He knew he could control me with his voice. In the thrumming silence that followed, I did not even need to tell him that I would stay. Both of us knew very well that I had no choice now he had sung for me.

Erik hesitantly came forwards, then knelt again at my feet as I stood rooted on the spot, unable to run from him. His hands were shaking almost as badly as mine as he raised them to enclose my hands in his. He was as cold as ever, but still I did not move.

'Five days,' whispered Erik. 'Five days and then I will take you back.'

Not knowing what lay ahead, I found myself nodding, wondering whether I really had a choice...


	9. Chapter 8: The True Don Juan

_**A/N:**__** Whew, busy week over. All 3 of my shows went great, albeit the occasional mishap. Sorry I couldn't get this up earlier...AOL is being weird, and I'd better post this quick in case my Internet fails completely. Thank you to pastheart (sorry it couldn't be sooner!), Chantal (that mask-breaking was another thing that came to me completely randomly. I was writing the bit about Christine waving her elbows about, and I thought: "Hey, wouldn't it be more interesting if she actually **_**hit**_** him?". :) So glad you're still liking it!) and Mrs. Quincy (here is your "more", then! :D)**_

_**Et voici...**_

The sound of a pipe organ playing drew me from where I sat on the couch and led me across the room as if following a silent call. In a dream-like state, I followed the haunting, beautiful melody of cascading notes and tocatta-like undertones out of the drawing-room and through a door into another room.

This room was the strangest yet, I noticed as I cautiously pushed the door further open. At first, my heart juddered in my chest as I saw what I thought to be a funeral room...but then I realised that the coffin, beneath its scarlet brocade hangings, was empty, and there was no body to be seen. I clutched at my arms in fear. Was that empty coffin to be filled by _my_ dead body? For a moment I was absolutely terrified, but soon it began to dawn on me that Erik's slavish behaviour and the coffin's sheer length showed that such a thing was unlikely. At least, it seemed so, from what I could gather. I ardently hoped I was right...

But what was the purpose of this room, then, if it had an empty coffin standing in the middle, and the notes of Dies Irae repeated everywhere I could see? The grand organ music swelled, and I turned to see a magnificent pipe organ on one wall. It was immensely tall, with a great selection of pipes that ranged from huge and long to thin and short. Carved wood curled about these pipes, holding them together and in place, and on the flat areas of the wood was chiselled grinning, intricately detailed death's-heads. And there, at the keyboard of this majestic instrument, conducting the entire orchestra of gleaming metal pipes, was Erik himself. He had not turned, as he had not remarked my presence in any way; the back of his black tailcoat was all I could see while he ran his inhumanly long fingers over the keys, kicking at pedals, pumping at bellows for the continual flow of air, and pulling the occasional lever. He was so completely absorbed by his music - no, he was _consumed _by it - that he appeared oblivious to everything else. I could not blame him; he played such a glorious air that it was hard for me to resist simply standing there dazed at this onslaught of talent. He was an Angel of Music in his own way...even if he was not the true being, he had a part of it in him. I watched how straight-backed he sat, shoulders tensing occasionally, body rocking slightly with the intensity of the music he played...

Who was this skeletally thin, physically cold man named Erik, who gave my voice such life and then whisked me away to his home underground? Who was this man who possessed such a voice, such a skill for music? _Whose was the face hidden behind the mask?_

I approached him slowly. The coffin, the music, the organ all became distant to me as I warily made my way towards him. Still he did not turn. He did not even realise my presence when I was right behind him. I was now so close I could read the sheet music spilling from the stand above the keyboard...I could see the complicated, hand-written score scrawled in red ink that lay closed and to one side...I could see every feverish movement of his fingers on the multiple keyboards...

I reached out a hand, my heart beating with sudden intensity. I cast no shadow over him or his sheet music...I was invisible to him. Questions still burned in my mind: why would he hide his face from me, now that I was willingly with him? Did this mean he did not want me to recognise him? Could I possibly have seen him before, and he wished his identity to remain hidden? My fingers shivered in the air just above his right ear...

It all happened so quickly. Erik's head moved sharply to the side to glance at the higher section of the keyboard that his hand had just darted to. In doing so, the side of his mask knocked against my outstretched fingers. Just as he whirled his head around to see what had brushed against his mask, my fingers grabbed the edge of it and tore it from his face in one sharp movement.

* * *

Before my shocked mind could even register what I was seeing, Erik uttered a horrible cry of dismay and pure, unbridled rage as the mask dropped to the ground. He turned to look straight at me with wild, pain-maddened eyes, and in that dreadful moment I was too horrified to even scream. What I was staring at could not even remotely be called the face of a man, let alone the face of a man touched by the Angel of Music...what I was staring at was the face of a ghastly cadaver, noseless and with skin so thin that even under the scars the webs of blue veins were visible. A barely-healed red gash across the sickening, gaping hole that was his nose contrasted garishly with the whiteness of his papery, almost translucent skin, and I could clearly see the cartilage inside the open crevice of his nose. My hands flew to my mouth as he bared his teeth in fury, standing from the bench he sat on.

Senseless with terror, I could think of nothing to do but turn and run as fast as I could from this awful vision. I knew I was trapped here in his home with him...but the only thing on my mind was to flee from the sudden, murderous fury blazing in his eyes. Heart pounding in my chest, I sought out the bedroom I had stayed in...all I thought about was to run -

Suddenly, a pair of fearsomely strong hands grabbed my shoulders and slammed me against the wall. I cried out; I had not anticipated how fast a runner he was - I had barely made it across the drawing-room.

That horrible, horrible face was inches from mine as he screamed curses at me, hissing incoherent words in languages I did not understand. In the face of his terrible fury, I would be lucky to escape with my life. He shook me viciously, shouting at me: '_Maudite!_ _C'est ce que tu veux que j'exhibe?_ Is this what you wish me to bare to the world? _Look at me, damn you! _You wanted to see my face; well, here it is! Why turn from what you were so desperate to see? _Look at me!_' Brutally, he grabbed my head in his icy hands and turned it, forcing me to stare straight at the odious sight before me. I sobbed, trying in vain to loosen his grip, but he was mad with his anger.

'Don't close your eyes - _look_! You expected me to be a handsome fellow, did you not? _Did you not?_' He suddenly began to laugh, and I seriously began to fear for myself. 'But I suppose _am_ rather dashing - any woman who sees me can never stop thinking about me! Now you, too, will belong to me forever - the sight of me will never escape your mind! Haha! I am as sharp an image as Don Juan, you see - so sharp that I scar for life! Ha!'

I cried even harder, but he still would not relinquish his grip. He pressed his awful face near to mine, and yelled: 'I'll wager that any woman would love to have me in her bed...love to have a mouldering corpse in her arms! Wouldn't you, my dear Christine, now that you have seen the face of the true Don Juan? Or do you think there is more to me than meets the eye? This face is only another mask, Christine...it is not really my own, there is no reason for it to be so! I do not like it, either, Christine..._why don't you take it off for me?_'

My weeping was pierced by a scream of horror as he seized my wrists and dug my own nails into his face. I hysterically cried out for him to stop, but he wouldn't, he couldn't - his eyes were still burning with the mad rage that could drop a chandelier onto a crowd. He pushed my nails deeper into his hollow cheeks, raking red lines down the delicate skin. The lines that he ripped from his jutting cheekbones to his jaw with my own fingers filled quickly with blood, but still he refused to stop, covering both our hands with the red that leaked from the wounds he made me inflict. It was purely nightmarish; not only was I being forced to touch his hideous face, but I was adding to the scars upon it, getting his warm, scarlet blood upon my fingers...

'No, Erik, please! Stop! _Stop_!'

'Oh, but I insist, my dear! Go on! Again! Again!' he screamed at me while I sobbed. His frown was deepening, his teeth gritted, as if he was on the verge of tears too. But still he broke the delicate, papery skin over and over again with my own hands. '_Encore, ma douce! Encore!'_

He was deaf to me, his thunderous voice - so brittle with his pain but at the same time so strong with his rage - drowning out my desperate, horrified pleas...

Abruptly his increasingly hysterical, pained encouragement caught in his throat, his fingers gripping mine so hard I thought they would break. There was an awful look on his face, and his eyes were focussing and unfocussing all the while. One of his hands spasmodically released me to clutch wildly at his own chest. He was bent over from some inexplicable physical pain that I could not define...I could no longer hear the harsh hiss of his angry breath. His mouth gasped open silently as I watched him in horror, not knowing what to do. The sight of even as fearsome a person as he in such terrible, mute pain was shocking. Without warning, his legs folded beneath him and he collapsed to the ground, his head hitting the floor with an unpleasant thud.

'E-Erik?'

He seemed unable to hear me; he was in visible agony, curled up with both fists white and clutching at the fabric upon his chest. His eyes were wide, and horrible shivers passed through him. A terrifying thought dawned on me: if he was to die, I would have no way of leaving his ghastly underground prison...I would end up dying by his side, driven mad by my confinement. This gave me more incentive to forget his previous violence and help him. He looked in a dreadful state; still weeping in terrified shock, I mustered the courage to touch his bony, shaking shoulder.

'Erik, tell me - what is it? Tell me what to do...Erik!' I entreated through my tears when he did not speak. My fears had changed so suddenly - only a few moments ago I had feared Erik, and now I feared _for_ him as his eyes rolled back horribly, purplish eyelids fluttering.

He let out a shuddering, shallow breath, which he drew in again just as sharply. His hands took a tighter grip on his chest, as if he was afraid something would escape from it. Tears mixing with the blood on his face, his eyes moved to me. My fears overcame my revulsion and I managed to touch his tense shoulder.

'...only...forgive me... - if you can...' His breath was hissing between his teeth now, shallow breaths that gradually evened. It seemed my touch was calming him slightly, giving him the will to carefully start breathing again. His yellow eyes closed in pain, then opened and focused on me, no longer angry but simply full of suffering. 'Oh, Christine...' he whispered hopelessly. 'Why do you show me such pity when you could just take that poker by the mantlepiece and finish what Fate has already started? Look, the hideous monster is helpless and incapacitated on the floor! Why do you not end it while you have this golden chance, before it can get up and do more harm?'

I shook my head in horror, distressed at what he was asking me - no, _advising _me - to do. He seemed surprised when I declined to erase him from the world and my conscience, but then he trembled and closed his eyes in despair.

'Oh, Christine, Christine...now I will have to keep you here forever, because if I let you go you will never return to see your miserable Erik, for sure!'

These words made my chest tighten, and I thought I would have a respiratory arrest of my own. The prospect of spending the rest of my days here, of wasting away my youth by the side of an unpredictable living corpse robbed me of my ability to speak or even move. I could only sit there, frozen in horror as Erik painfully pushed himself into a sitting position, loosening his collar.

He shivered and coughed horribly, his thin chest juddering, long hand against his mouth. When he took his hand away, it was spattered with blood...but not from his torn cheeks. I eyed him warily. I had never heard of those suffering from consumption being completely unable to breathe and possibly having heart problems. Whatever strange disease Erik was ailing from, it was apparent that it was quite a horrible one.

Breath still wheezing in his throat, Erik tugged at his cravat and stiffly made his way to his bedroom, barely able to get up from the ground. I stared after him, immobile, as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Shortly after Erik had disappeared into his rather macabre bedchamber - or _coffin-_chamber, more like - I found the power to raise myself from the ground and shakily make my way to my own allocated room.

As if lost in a dream, I silently closed the door behind me, leaning against it as if all strength had gone from my legs. This was too much...all of this was too much, too much for anyone to handle in the space of one day! I clutched at my head, sinking to the carpeted ground. I felt as if my head would burst from all the emotion, from all of the ordeals put upon me in so short a time...

I had followed an Angel, dreaded a Phantom and now feared a monster. This Erik...it was hard for me to tell what emotion I felt for him, because it changed as rapidly as his flighty moods. Sometimes I was wary of him, sometimes I felt compassion for him...and at other times, he horrified me. Not just his face - oh, no - but his unpredictable humours and the blind rage that I had seen cloud his yellow eyes. It was apparent that he had been lurking underground for at least a couple of years, and it seemed that this extreme solitude, as well as the horror of his own face, was making him lose his grip on his mind.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, as if trying to block out the sight of the deceptively normal Louis-Philippe bedroom enough to wake up in Mama Valerius's house again. Oh! Mama Valerius! Of course...the poor thing, she would be so worried about me! She would wonder where I am, and be so -

I stopped, realising. No, she would not worry; had I not told her, so many times, confessed to her my lessons from the Angel of Music himself? Had I not said that I was in contact with the Angel she had heard my father speak about? The old dear did so love that story; she was still a child at heart, which was how she so solidly believed - as I once did - in the existence of the Angel. The poor old woman would be sitting happily at home, probably thinking the Angel had taken me to Heaven with him for a while. I could see her now, sitting in her favourite chair by the window with a teacake in her hand, contentedly visualising my triumphs and giggling to herself whenever she thought that she was the only one in on the secret.

I sighed dejectedly. If only she knew...I had not been taken by the Angel of Music, but by a fiendish skeleton with his voice, and had been dragged down to an underground Hell where no daylight had ever shone in the lieu of a blissful Heaven. Now I was imprisoned here, _all alone_, with a madman as my only company. Nobody knew where I was; nobody could help me. I knew it was only a matter of time before the monstrous creature would fly into another of his terrible rages and murder me - or worse, ravage me horribly where none could hear my cries for help...

I shuddered at the thought of those inhumanly long, dexterous fingers invasively clawing at my garments, and felt tears prick at my eyes. I had only felt this terrible hopelessness a few times in my life...but affairs had always mended afterwards. Here and now, I could see no way my state could get any better.

A glint of silver caught my eye, and I raised my head. Seeing what it was, I got to my feet and walked over to pick it up. It was a pair of scissors, which had been lying in a basket to one side. I turned them in my hands, touching the blades with a finger. They were quite sharp.

As I looked at them, I realised how easy, how _simple_ it would be to end myself and never have to think about my sorry predicament again. I would never have to see the awful corpse again...never have his beastly golden eyes glare at me so intensely. I was so terrified of Erik that I was prepared to do this...

I abruptly shook myself and dropped the scissors back into the basket, turning away and gripping my elbows firmly. No, it would be a dreadful sin. Even if I would not see Erik again, I would also lose my dear adoptive mother, Mama Valerius, and poor Meg...and _Raoul_! Oh, Raoul! If only he knew, too! I craved his kind support more than ever now. It felt as if the entire Opera house above me was slowly descending to crush me, pushing me slowly into the ground. I could not bear it...but still I would not resort to the sin of suicide. It would be selfish and cowardly. I could not do it; I would have to brave Erik instead, and -

The breath froze in my throat, my limbs suddenly trembling as a thunderous wailing began somewhere outside my room. I did not move, and soon, as the sound rose in lachrymose flourishes and trills, I realised that the tremendous cry of pain and suffering came from the pipes of an organ, forced through the instrument by strange and discordant sets of chords played on the keyboard. I clutched at the neck of my dress, seized by the pure despair in music form that was seeping steadily through the walls. It was so terrible and melancholic it made me shiver, yet at the same time it was so beautiful I could only listen in wonder.

No music like this had ever been played...it sounded so _human_, so full of emotion. It was apparent that this was being played by a man who had intuitively unlocked the secret of which set of notes corresponded with which complex emotions in the turmoil of his heart and mind. This was no simple play of harmonies and melodies, like I had heard before; this was something much more ominous, something much more awful. This was the sound of sadness, the sound of bitterness, the sound of all the hardships in the world! It was no longer music...it was far worse. Something like this could scar a person for life. It was the kind of music never played because it was never meant to be heard in the first place.

As I listened helplessly, I began to realise...I began to see, to _know_ that the only way a man could produce such terrible sound from an instrument was if he had experienced it all himself - if he had each and every one of those burdensome, black emotions weighing down his heart already. It dawned on me that what Erik was had been largely contributed to by other people. I glimpsed what must have only been a small part of his sheer, all-encompassing pain...but it was enough to sent me running from my room, across the drawing-room and straight into Erik's own bedroom.

* * *

The moment he sensed my presence, the figure languishing at the keyboard leapt to his feet with a distrustful wariness only experience could have hammered into him. The ghastly music of human suffering ceased immediately, and in the silence that followed, I could still hear its echoes reverberating through the underground caverns...or was it through my mind?

Erik had not turned around when he had jumped from the bench. He kept his back turned to me, head carefully angled away and one white, spidery hand partially raised to cover it in case I could see. His shoulders were rising and falling; it seemed as if he had truly been exerting himself at the organ.

'Erik?' I murmured tentatively. His head twitched, as if he had only just stopped himself from reflexively turning it, to spare me the sight of his hideousness.

'Christine?'

I sighed. 'I...Forgive me, for being so ill-mannered,' I requested quietly. 'My curiosity is inexcusable.'

Still turned away, Erik's head bowed. 'Oh, Christine, if you had not seen my face, you would have been free to go, as I would have been safe with the knowledge that you would return to me!' he said sadly, then became quite humble. 'But it is I who must beg your forgiveness, dear child...I let my emotions get the better of me. Nobody has seen my face like that in _years_, you see...I was out of practice, otherwise I would have taken it quite calmly.'

I took a step forwards, heart thudding in my chest. Now the music had gone, it was hard to keep my resolve, but I managed. In my mind, I thought that if I could convince him that I had no horror of him, he would certainly let me go, knowing I would return...

'Erik, you can turn around,' I told him bravely. 'Now I have heard your music I can see that your heart does not mirror your face. I have no fear of it now!' A sharp gasp of wonder passed his lips, and he looked straight at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. His look of awe made him appear so child-like that I felt almost heartbroken to be tricking him into letting me go like this.

Seeing that I did not cringe or look away from the sight of his emaciated death's-head, he suddenly dropped to his knees before me, kissing the hem of my dress. I heard another strange sobbing, but this time it did not come from the organ - it came from the man and mystery himself.

'Oh, my dear, dear Christine!' he wept uncontrollably. 'You have no idea..._tu ne te rendras jamais compte...comme j'ai souffert!_ How I have sufferred! But now...you can brave the sight of me! _Oh, ma chère aimée!_ You are truly an angel...truly an angel for finally seeing poor Erik's love...poor Erik, who looks like a corpse but still has the ability to adore unconditionally, as I do now!'

I could only stare as he sobbed in gratitude at my feet. He loved me? After everything that had happened? To say I was stunned would be insufficient...I was shocked, _horrified_. Now that he had confessed the feelings kept in his festering, hate-blackened heart, he would doubtlessly keep me here forever. Or would he...? Surely in time he would not be able to deny me a moment above ground?

'What were you playing?' I asked him, suddenly remembering as my gaze travelled over the curling carved wood of the organ. His ghastly face tilted upwards, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and solemnity.

'My opera,' he told me in hushed tones. I glanced at the leather-bound score on the stand; to me, it appeared to be a furious barrage of notes splattered over intricate bars, each sequence looking so violent but so ordered, like the ranks of an army positioned in an entirely new, deadly formation of attack. I slowly walked closer, transfixed. In places, strange symbols were added that I did not recognise; musical symbols that were obviously of his own creation, that he turned to when no existing symbol could describe what he played. The margins were swarming with illegible, scrawled notes, in red ink just like the rest of the score. I ran my eyes over the bars of notes apprehensively; even on the page, they seemed to vibrate and shiver with a fearsome intensity.

'What is it called?' I asked, wondering what sort of a name this maelstrom of emotions and sounds could have. Erik appeared silently beside me.

'I have titled it "Don Juan Triumphant",' he answered quietly. I glanced up at him, just catching the flicker of the old darkness before it disappeared. 'It is my masterpiece,' explained Erik, continuing. 'When it is complete, I shall take it with me to my coffin and never wake up.'

I blinked...but such were the eccentricities of genius, I supposed. 'Then you must work on it as little as you possibly can,' I commented, wondering how a man could devote himself so entirely to his music.

'Oh, no,' he contradicted, shaking his head. 'I toil over it for days and weeks on end. I can go on for many a day without food, water, or sleep when music is my nourishment. But then I lay it aside for years at a time.'

He turned away from the complicated score.

'Come; let us leave this now,' he said dismissively, changing the subject. 'I would like to show you the rest of my home...'

And so, with him leading me and casting unsettlingly adoring glances back at me, we left the room. I only hoped I would be able to survive like this...


	10. Chapter 9: Jealousy

_**A/N:**__**Thanks to Chantal (The attack he had is not due to the morphine, though...it's something else that you'll find out about in a later chapter!) and MadLizzy (Wow - 17 reviews in two days?? I really appreciate your feedback! I'll be going back and sorting out those typos...I'm so glad you like it. Erik, a graverobber? Hmm...I can almost see him with a wooden spade and canvas sheet, digging away. But maybe Christine believed so strongly in everything about the Angel that she **_**imagined**_**it to be the exact sound of her father's violin? It did say in the Leroux novel that she was already imagining korrigans when she went to the cemetery that night...And "eldritch" happens to be my favourite word, second to "maravedi"!) for the reviews.**_

_**Forgive the shortness...and watch out for the brief change in POV.**_

* * *

An entire week passed. An entire week of being under the ground in the company of a loving corpse who became so obedient and slavish that I found myself shocked. It was surprising how easily Erik could set aside his dark dignity and fawn over me endlessly. Even when it was hard to keep up the pretence, I would still smile graciously at each of his attentions, at every new talent of his he demonstrated. However, I did not always have to try hard; some of our days were filled with blissful music and sung duets that made me remember the time I believed him to be an Angel. Other days, too, were bearable - if not quite sad - when Erik would suddenly divulge to me a tiny but heartbreaking detail of his past. I learned, from the bits and pieces he would mention almost unwittingly, that his mother had not been able to love him, that he had spent some of his youth as a freak show exhibit, and had travelled to Persia, India and even Tonkin, in Vietnam. Whenever I would ask him specific questions about these events in his life however, he would occasionally stumble upon a painful memory and refuse to talk about it any more. He could become quite reserved at times like that, but what he told me was enough for me to begin to piece together what must surely have been a horrendous life. The light I saw Erik in kept changing, incessantly; though I had so recently feared a monster, I now pitied a man...a living man with real emotions who deserved a little kindness.

At the end of the week, Erik had become so confident that he offered to take me above ground. My heart swelled at the prospect, but he cautioned that we would only be doing a tour of the Bois de Boulogne in a carriage, in the safety of darkness. Nevertheless, I longed for a breath of fresh air and the feeling of the wind on my face again. It was with great enthusiasm that I contemplated the prospect of being able to leave this tomb, even for just a little while...

* * *

_**-Raoul-**_

* * *

The night was still and calm - deceptively so, even. It would have been more fitting had it been stormy and pouring down with rain, which would have gone well with the turmoil raging in Raoul de Chagny's heart and mind. Christine's mysterious and troubling disappearance had worried him to no end...he was certain that it was something to do with the so-called "Angel of Music". For days he had not slept, so frightened he was for her; to think of his poor, sweet Christine, so full of innocence even at the brink of full womanhood, in the hands of a strange man who had deceived her and now had succeeded in whisking her away from the rest of the world. And what a perfectly timed kidnapping it had been: right after the chandelier accident, when all the Opera house was in chaos and confusion and nobody would know the young singer had vanished until days later!

But was it really a kidnapping? Was there any possibility that Christine had actually gone _willingly_? Had she merely run off with her "Angel"? Raoul picked at his gloves distractedly as he stood in the darkened Bois. A few days ago he had spent hour upon hour at the Palais Garnier, asking whoever he could find about the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Daaé. The directors had been aggravatingly vague and unconcerned, which had maddened him. How could people care so little for the talented young Swedish girl? He had asked around a bit more...and then he had heard a rumour from somebody. It was said that Christine had been seen in the Bois de Boulogne, leaning from the window of a carriage and gazing up at the night sky. What tore at Raoul's heart most was that there was allegedly a _male companion_ in the carriage with her. Who could this "companion" be? He would have found it easier to accept if Christine had only _told_ him of this man...

Now he stood waiting, waiting for the carriage to appear. He half hoped it wouldn't, as that would disprove the rumours...but then again, he so desperately wished to see Christine again...

'De Chagny, this is pointless. You don't even know if the damned carriage is coming or not,' said a disapproving voice next to him. Raoul sighed inwardly. This afternoon his brother Philippe had been adamant that Raoul needed to "stop pining and actually live", so he had sent him out with several acquaintances to different cabarets and other places of entertainment. Not that Raoul had stopped pining in any way; he had been quite morose, as usual, which in turn made his camarades ill-tempered, too.

'Go home then, d'Aubigné, if you must,' Raoul grumbled back. He had insisted on coming to the Bois, which meant his companions were dragged along, too.

The young man named d'Aubigné, however, had no intention of leaving. He merely shrugged and raised his eyebrows at the others.

'I must say, your attachment to this singer is -'

'_Ssshhh_!' Raoul stiffened and silenced d'Aubigné with a quick gesture, his eyes fixed on something down the road.

A carriage, glossy-black in the moonlight, was travelling at a leisurely pace along it, coming steadily closer. Raoul's pulse quickened. It would pass them soon, and then he would be able to see just who it was that Christine was -

The silvery glow of the moonlight suddenly lit up a face - the lovely, familiar face of a young woman leaning out of the window. Her chin was tilted upwards in simple bliss, her hair stirring gently in the breeze...

'_Christine_!' Raoul cried out in wonder before he could stop himself. As soon as the name left his lips, he realised he really should have kept quiet...but the sight of his loved one was too much!

At the sound of his cry, the carriage suddenly sped up, and Christine's face disappeared. Wheels clattering, it bolted down the path with such speed that Raoul barely got a glimpse of the dark shadow sitting beside Christine as it passed him. However, he almost managed to throw himself at the carriage just as it flew past, but his friends grabbed him and held him back, their faces all whipped by the carriage's windstream.

'Are you insane?'

'It was her! It was her!' Raoul cried, straining against the arms that held him, looking desperately at the carriage that was disappearing rapidly into the distance. 'Tell me you saw who was in there with her...'

The others looked at each other and shook their heads. D'Aubigné rolled his eyes in a long-suffering manner. 'Really, now, if the girl is so openly flaunting a new relationship, why should you trail after her like a shameless little dog?' he put forth snipingly. 'It's apparent your dear chorus girl is just like the rest, my friend - evasive and in constant search of different lovers. She seems to have charmed you with her coquettish ways, at first, and now she has obviously found someone with more money to spend on her -'

Raoul spun around and glared at the young man in outrage. 'How dare you say such a thing!' he uttered in horror. 'Christine isn't like that one bit -'

D'Aubigné crossed his arms and replied rather sneeringly: 'Then how would you explain her actions? I personally think that if a young woman goes about the Bois alone in the carriage of another gentleman, then her intentions are quite clear.' He looked towards the others. 'Would you not agree? Little harlots, the lot of them, and you would do best not to get tied down with - _argh_!' Raoul's furiously clenched fist struck him straight in the smirking face, sending him sprawling on the ground. The young Vicomte's cheekbones were a fiery red with his indigation, and he yelled out: 'If you say another word against her I'll clout you one again!'

'You just can't stand the truth, can you, little de Chagny? Look at you - too juvenile to accept reality!' d'Aubigné threw back, leaping to his feet with his hands curled into fists as well.

The tussle that ensued was eventually broken up - with much difficulty - by the other young men, who had been rather horrified to see such violence from the usually shy younger brother of the Comte. When they finally succeeded to drag the furious Raoul off d'Aubigné, the two of them were sporting several bruises each, along with blackened eyes, cut lips and bleeding noses. Fortunately for d'Aubigné, albeit Raoul's outrage-fuelled anger, the Vicomte was not a very experienced fighter, having been mostly raised by his two sisters. Nevertheless, both d'Aubigne and Raoul had given each other a good pummelling, and their fight would definitely be something to talk about for the ensuing weeks...

* * *

'_Public brawling_.' Philippe's tone was stern, sharp, and very displeased indeed. He sighed in disbelief, then looked back up at his younger brother from his desk. 'I don't know what to say to you, Raoul, really I don't...I know I have always been rather lenient with you, but this is just taking it _too far_...'

Raoul hung his head in shame, feeling very much like a small child in the face of the Comte's discontentment.

'Do you realise that your rash actions are dragging down our family name?' Philippe said seriously. 'We are very fortunate indeed that you did not choose to lay into that young d'Aubigné in broad daylight. Even so, your reputation is tainted now - attacking a fellow gentleman at night in the Bois! Why, I would never expect such a thing from _you_, of all people, Raoul! I would think only outlaws would accost others in such a way - not _you_! Not shy young Raoul...it's not like you at all. I can barely recognise you of late; always so miserable and suddenly extremely interested in the Opera...and now this!'

Raoul picked at his fingernails. 'But Philippe, I was provoked -'

His brother slammed his hands down on the desk. 'You are missing the point _entirely_!' he interrupted. 'We cannot afford to be the fodder of gossip in this city. We must maintain our reputation, and I will _not_have you dragging the name of de Chagny through the dirt! Do you understand?'

'Yes,' Raoul mumbled, unable to meet Philippe's eye. 'I'm sorry I behaved so rashly.'

'And so you should be,' replied the Comte, but the rage had by now faded from him. 'Now get out of my sight.'

* * *

_**-Christine-**_

* * *

I seriously, honestly, and with all truth thought he was going to kill me after we had flown from the Bois. When the carriage stopped outside his private entrance into the Opéra's cellars, he did not let me down from it graciously as he had before - he seized my wrist in a cold, bony grip and dragged me after him, like a _boucher_ leading a poor, stupid lamb to be slaughtered.

He had not spoken to me since the terribly familiar voice - the voice of the one I least needed to hear at that moment - had called out my name with such adoring awe back in the Bois. As silent as the grave but full of a seething rage, Erik took me back down to his lair and threw me from him angrily. Although his face was normally an inhuman stark yellow-white, it was now blotchy and greyish in places with his sheer fury.

'So, he lingers still, _ce maudit Vicomte_!' he growled. 'He still follows you like a mindless, lovesick little schoolboy! Pity that he is not bright enough to _leave us alone_!'

I could only stand and tremble in the face of his anger as he paced back and forth like a maddened animal. Abruptly he halted in his pacing and fixed me with a burning gaze, his lipless teeth bared in rage.

'He _loves_you, doesn't he?' Erik hissed, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet. I couldn't look at him for fear of being seared by his eyes. 'He loves you!' he repeated, a mad, morbid awe stealing over him. 'Tell me, Christine...tell me - you find him handsome, do you not? Stop turning away - answer me! Tell Erik...the young de Chagny lad appeals to you, with his flaxen locks and blue-eyed gaze! Hmm? Not to mention his title and noble family!' His tone was deceptively coaxing and kind, insanely trying to urge me to confide in him. My eyes began to water; I hated this madness that seized Erik, this uncontrollable pain-driven insanity that twisted his way of thinking on some occasions. In one flowing stride he crossed the distance between us and took my shoulders in his hands. 'Cease your weeping, Christine, and tell Erik! You like the boy too, don't you!' his voice was now harsh and racked with pain. 'You surely must...he has everything: a family, a title, youth, good looks - even a lovely nose to go with it!' I shut my eyes tightly, shivering in his grip as he let out an awful laugh at his own black sense of humour. 'The only way a young man can show such ardour is if he knows there is a chance he is loved in return!' Erik cried out, his horrible amusement gone all of a sudden. 'I _know_ it, Christine! I know he will be back again! You have disobeyed me - you have let earthly indulgences get the better of you!'

'No, Erik!' I whimpered desperately, noticing that he was working himself into a frenzy. 'It's not true, Erik - I have not disobeyed you, not in the slightest! He won't bother us again, I assure you...he is leaving soon!'

Erik's mad rage faltered, and his poor repulsive face paused in its scowling. 'Leaving, you say? What do you mean by that, _ma colombe_?'

Spurred on by the sudden abating of the storm and the small word of tenderness that had slipped into his speech, I continued: 'He is soon going on an expedition, all the way to the North Pole...in a few months, Erik, he will leave in his ship and never return.'

'Really, now?' His yellow eyes gleamed, his hands still holding onto my shoulders. I felt quite vulnerable all of a sudden; I knew that Erik would no doubt begin to formulate plans of what the two of us would do together once Raoul was not there to hinder him. I saw days and months and years of sitting alone with him in his lair, politely praising his magic tricks and listening to his frightening music. A shudder threatened to pass through me, but I did not let my horror show on my face. The best would be to humour the monster while I was with him, so that he would not fly into one of his terrible rages and keep me with him for an indefinite amount of time. I had been with Erik long enough to see that his grip on sanity was loosening...he was hanging onto it as wearily as a one-armed man dangling from a cliff all his life. It was only a matter of time before he lost his strength and plummeted into the abyss of madness...and I did not wish to be near him when it happened. Hopefully his strange affliction would strike him down before he completely lost his mind...

Erik released my shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height. He stood taller and straighter than he ever had before, eyes narrowed and a smile curling his thin lips. 'That does indeed change matters!' he remarked. 'If you speak correctly, then I suppose in a few months' time we shall have nobody to intrude upon our moments together!'

I resisted a second shudder, forcing a gracious smile on my face. Oh, the vagaries of his twisted moods would be the death of me! One thing was for certain, though: Erik was most profoundly jealous of Raoul, which was quite understandable in itself. I only hoped nothing bad would happen to my poor friend the Vicomte, and that he did not hate me for my quick flight from him in the Bois...oh, what must he think of me now?

Erik's ill humour had now completely vanished. 'I have heard in passing that there will be a ball here at the Opéra, two nights from now,' he told me pensively. 'It is quite an exceptional affair.' He turned his head suddenly to face me, grinning wickedly. 'And do you know, _ma chère Christine_, what type of ball it shall be?'

I shook my head silently, wondering what had suddenly amused him so.

'Why, a _bal masqué_!' he cried, his voice thunderous with mirth. He began to laugh; his laugh sounded strange to me, as if he had not been given the chance to practice it often. 'But you see, Christine, I am going to make a little joke - I have a rather amusing idea in mind for my own costume!' - he chuckled to himself - '_Yes_! Wait until you see what my joke will be...'

I knew that I would not be disappointed...the only thing was, I did not know whether Erik shared the same idea of "funny" as the rest of the human race...

I was equally sure that I would need to brace myself for something wry and macabre.


	11. Chapter 10: Masquerade

_**A/N:**__**Urgh...an hour and a half of baseball in the pouring rain, then off to the swimming pool...**__**not**__** fun. However, I have (just) escaped with my life, and am still conscious enough to post this chapter. Big thank you to Chantal (The funny thing is, that fight was inspired by a scene in one of the Bridget Jones movies (can't remember which one)...I thought "I **__**have **__**to have Raoul have a little punch-up somewhere!", so voilà :). Leroux Raoul is so devoted to Christine, so it sort of made sense. I love crazy Erik moments...he'll have another jealousy fit in this chapter, too, as I can't resist them!), Madhatter45 (Sorry, matey, too late...don't you like a little death scene? ;D) and KnightCrusader (Dark Erik is the most realistic, I think. Fluffy Erik just doesn't seem right. I saw the musical when I was five or six, and it has stayed with me ever since, which is how I came by it. Kay is a genius...:D) for the loverly encouragements!**_

_**And hooray - now we get to see Erik in his costume :)...**_

* * *

I stared in shocked awe at the majestic apparition before me. Towering tall and proud, dressed entirely in the deepest, richest and most _sublime_ of scarlets, he looked down at me with a lopsided smirk on his face as my eyes travelled in amazement over his magnificent costume. It was fit for any king, high-collared and tailored from the finest of materials. I gazed at the gold embroidery that curled about his lapels and down by the buttons of his tunic. From his shoulders, there also hung an immense cloak of a matching scarlet, which was so long that it would have looked quite ridiculous on anyone but Erik, who had enough ghastly grace to pull it off. But more opulent still was the huge, wide-brimmed hat perched atop his awful head - a hat that was plumed by several large feathers, all in the same shade of red as the rest of his attire. To see Erik in so extravagant an ensemble was frankly rather overcoming. I was so used to seeing him clad in black suits that I became quite speechless at such a grandiose sight.

Even when dressed in vibrant red, however, Erik managed to look very funereal. His sharp hipbones were visible even through the velvet of his trousers, which seemed to have been custom-tailored so that they did not hang baggily from his bones as they usually did. This meant that the tighter fit of his garments made it all the more visible how horribly skeletal he was; his calves looked so stick-thin than it was a wonder that he could keep upright at all. His emaciated shoulders were thankfully hidden by the gold-embroidered epaulettes, but his too-sharp elbows looked as if they would poke straight through the scarlet sleeves. He had all the semblance of a skeleton, or of the ghost of a long-dead prince with his regal outfit and ostentatious plumed hat. What made this all the more convincing was the gaunt face visible under the hat's wide brim, looking just like bare bones in the dim glow of the few candles that were lit in the drawing-room. The scarlet-cloaked skeleton grinned at me, a glimmer of yellow glinting from the black depths of its eye-sockets.

'I see you are dressed,' it remarked, not at all in the grating rasp one might expect of a skeleton, but rather in a vibrant, melodious voice full of unsettling power.

'Oh - yes,' I replied distractedly. Looking down at my own black domino costume, I felt terribly bland and dull in the presence of this majestic spectre. I found my gaze gravitate uncontrollably towards him again; he seemed to radiate a strange sort of magnetism as I stood before him...there was something almost suave about the way he looked. I was awed at this - I usually found him so repulsive, but now, dressed in such a costume and looking so sure of himself, I thought he looked almost...comely. He gave off such an air of proud majesty that he was oddly seductive, sinisterly debonair...

To detract my own attention from his domineering stance, I wondered what manner of mask he had for his costume...him being the master of all disguises and illusions, I was impatient to discover which he had chosen for tonight. As a man who wore fine masks every day of his life, a proper masquerade mask of his would surely be something tremendous...

I realised he was watching me watching him, his eyes hooded. 'Why such a faraway countenance all of a sudden, Christine my dear?' he asked me. 'Do you like my costume? Is it not very fine indeed?'

I did not even have to pretend. 'I admire it greatly,' I told him with all honesty, then decided to ask him outright. 'Which mask have you with it?'

Erik looked at me for a second, then threw his head back and laughed thunderously, bony frame trembling with mirth. I frowned at him as he laughed and laughed, not at all seeing what was funny. 'Oh, Christine! Ha ha ha ha! Whoops - you are making me lose my hat, my dear! Haha!' he chuckled, holding onto his hat - which had been on the verge of falling from his tilted head - with a skeletal, white hand. 'You have touched upon the joke of my costu- hoo-hoo, forgive me, I have not laughed like this in a while!' - he wiped away a tear of mirth - 'You have found the funny thing about my costume: there _is_ no mask to go with it! I am dressed as the Red Death, and I do not need a death-mask as I already have one conveniently in the guise of my face! _Oh, ma chère_...isn't it amusing that at an event where everybody disguises their faces, like I have done all of my life, I myself go as I am? Because, you see, going to a masquerade with a mask on would feel to me just like a normal evening...it would be a nice change to go without one - it would make the event feel just as special as it would to you. Besides, my face is so inhuman nobody will even think that it is really mine!' He spoke with such simple glee that I felt terrible for him. How could he speak so lightly of his deformity? It was obvious that tonight he was in high spirits; this gave me hope, for there was a chance he would be relaxed enough to let me disappear for a while...

Earlier that day, I had sent out a quick note to poor Raoul. It had been tremendously difficult to send without Erik knowing, but I had managed to drop it outside the Opéra in the hope of a passer-by having the affability to deliver it. In the note I told him to meet me at the masquerade ball in the salon behind the foyer's fireplace; I had decided that I must seize my chance and let the poor boy know the truth of the Angel of Music!

It had been a great decision to make, indeed...even then I was not sure whether it was worth the risk to meet the Vicomte. However, the fact that there was no certainty that my note would be delivered eased my mind slightly - _fate_ would decide whether Raoul would actually even be there for me to tell him or not! If chance would have it that Raoul _would_ be there, then I would tell him...confide in him the dark secret of the tortured soul named Erik who lived under the Opera house. He would hopefully understand, then...we would be able to be amiable towards each other again, as we always were before -

'Christine, my love?' Erik's frighteningly suspicious tone cut through my reverie abruptly. I blinked, my vague smile fading in an instant.

'Yes?' I answered.

He was looking down at me, arms crossed, weight shifted to his right leg, and his unsettlingly numerous front teeth resting on his lower lip.

'By experience I have come to know that when you have such a soft look in your eyes, you are thinking about something,' he told me, making it clear what he meant by "something". I, however, feigned confusion.

'Something? I fear I don't understand -'

His spidery hands now rested on his painfully sharp hips.

'I know tenderness of heart when I see it,' he interrupted sharply. 'Don't pretend you do not understand what I mean. You know very well.'

Heart beginning to race at the dangerous tone that had crept into his voice, I assured him: 'But I was only thinking of _you_, Erik...of your genius and -'

'_Do not lie to me!_' Erik suddenly burst out, and in a fearsome movement, he pinned me to the wall. His breathing was ragged, and his eyes were narrowed in furious pain. 'Do not take me for a fool, Christine...I have lived long enough in this miserable world - far longer than you have - and I know very well that no woman in her right mind could ever think of _me_ with such detached, simple joy! You have only known me for barely over a week - I cannot expect even a child as lovely and kind-hearted as you to fully and entirely accept me in such a short space of time! No - your eyes lit up because you were thinking not of me...but of _him_!' He spat out this last word with such dreadful jealousy that I trembled from head to foot. However, this time I was determined not to let him scare me again - I reminded myself that _I_ had some control over him, and that I could stop this before his dark rage reached its terrifying peaks -

'Erik!' I cried out in supplication, my hands flying to the white, enraged face above me. To my surprise, his whole body twitched and let me go, as if he expected to be struck. But when my hands merely rested on either side of that fearsome head, fingers nudging the wide brim of the scarlet-plumed hat, he seemed to freeze. All trace of anger vanished from his face with horrifying rapidity, replaced instead by a wide-eyed look of awe and wonder that made him appear almost...human. I realised then that this must be due to the fact that I was the first to touch that ghastly death-head in such a manner, and he was momentarily paralysed by his surprise.

Then, something truly horrible happened.

He began to cry.

* * *

After the braveness on my part to touch him, Erik seemed full of a sort of humble humility when he gave me his arm to lead me to the ball. We travelled in silence through the gloomy corridors - the Red Death and his lady, his lady who was blind in the dark and clutched her grim companion's arm for fear of losing herself in the black labyrinth forever. Erik carried the end of his heavy, long cloak neatly bundled on his other arm, so that it would not drag along the damp floors that had never been swept or cleaned. The only sound as we walked was the sound of my shoes on the stone. Erik walked so silently that I could scarcely hear his own polished black boots beside me. In those moments of blind walking, I could almost believe that I was walking with a ghost.

I thought back to when we were in his lair...I so hated and feared the sight of those yellow eyes weeping such heavy, large tears that trickled down the uneven, emaciated planes of his deathly face. When he cried, it tore at my heart, for he looked so _human_, so...so full of real emotion. Whenever he was angry, or happy, or in an insane rant, it was easier to bear, since he just seemed like any creature who, despite his extraordinary misfortune, was just that: a creature. But when he cried, it reminded me that he was, in actual fact, a _man_...a real person with just as many emotions and just as much consciousness as myself. It put me in his place, the sight of those tears, and the proof of his wretchedness made me feel so horribly for him. He ceased to be the tyrannical monster who scared me and controlled me with his voice and languished in his dark lair. He became a living soul who inspired great pity and compassion in his moments of weakness.

What was even worse was that he had sunk to his knees before me - _one_ knee, in fact - and clutched at the edge of my skirts, which he always did in such moments of frightening submission. He had kept his face always tilted up towards me, and I could not for the life of me remove my hands from his head. The odd texture of his skin and the hard bone I could feel directly underneath unsettled me, but still I could not let go of him, for such was the heart-wrenching look on his face...

'Christine,' came his broken whisper. 'Oh, Christine...my disgraceful anger is not worthy of your kind touch, nor your pure heart, and I pray most ardently that you will forgive me for it. But Christine, my love...this can only mean that you, too, have affection for your poor, poor Erik - even if it is just a fraction of what he feels for his beloved Christine, with every fibre of his sorry heart! I never expected your love would ever equal mine...but it does not matter to me, I would gladly have you anyway. Christine, I cannot say how exuberant and honored I would be if you would accept to be my wife!'

My heart stopped in my chest, and during those tremulous seconds after he had uttered those terrible words, I wildly wondered how I would refuse without killing him...for there was a slavish, dependent look in his awful yellow eyes that told me his entire life depended on what my next words would be.

The look of desperation and pure adoration on his face was too much to bear; how could I decline? Instead, I stalled for time.

'Erik,' I told him with a nervous laugh, 'is it not a bit early for such talk?'

He was up like a jack-in-the-box, clasping my hands in both of his. 'Of course not, my love, far from it...but I understand if you need more time to think. One must be patient with women,' he said aside, as if talking to another person. 'I will wait for you. But at least consent to an engagement with your Erik - simply as a proof of your good faith?'

I decided beggars could not be choosers, and nodded. Erik's lips split into a great smile, and his plumed hat toppled unheeded from his head.

'Oh, my beloved Christine...what can I say? I cannot express my joy...oh, Christine!' he sighed. 'You must give me a day or two to procure the ring, though - the ring that may serve as a wedding ring as well as an engagement ring, if all goes well. Oh, my love!' He seemed quite beside himself with glee, when suddenly he stumbled slightly, his features tightening. At first I thought he had tripped on his cloak, but then I saw his hand rise to his chest, his breathing rapid. He closed his eyes and leant heavily against the wall, appearing quite sickly all of a sudden. Perhaps such strong emotion was not good for him?

'Erik?' I asked worriedly. 'Erik, what is it?'

Eyes still closed, he took a deep, shuddering breath, then appeared to recover slightly. He gave me a small smile of reassurance. 'Nothing, my dear - it is just that such intense excitement is simply not recommended at my age. Haha! Now, I believe I have misplaced my hat...'

He had seemed so quickly recovered, that I thought nothing more of it afterwards, when we walked together through the corridors, with Erik tall and proud once more by my side. All that occupied my mind was _how _on _earth_ I would ever get to Raoul, if he was there...and I feared what would happen should they chance to see each other. Folly, pure folly! Surely Erik's sharp gaze would catch poor Raoul, and kill us both, ball or no ball! I supposed I should have to deal with matters once there, and cease to dwell upon them for the time being...

* * *

To my extreme surprise, I found that this problem was almost non-existent when I and my sinister cavalier arrived into the grand foyer. Erik became the immediate centre of attention with his extravagant attire and, of course, ghastly face. I found myself wondering at how gullibly those at the ball believed Erik's face to be the work of some great artist. Erik himself appeared quite haughty and aloof with all the admiring murmurs around him, but I could see the gleam in his eye and the faint curl of his lips that suggested he was, in actual fact, quite ecstatic.

On the back of his cloak I could see plainly the curling, gold embroidered words: '_Ne me touchez pas - je suis la Mort Rouge qui passe!_', which probably saved any explanation of whom he was disguised at, in case any in the awed crowd had not read the work of the English author Edgar Allen Poe. Erik had told me with a laugh, down in his lair, that it did not matter if _I_ had touched him...mine was the only touch he would permit. Normally this would have flattered me, but under the circumstances, it sadly did not.

Now, as the tall, majestic apparition stalked slowly about the foyer with a gathering crowd in his wake, I managed to slip away unnoticed, for I had just glimpsed a flash of white near the fireplace. Closer inspection proved my thoughts to be entirely correct: Raoul de Chagny had indeed received my note, and was nervously hovering by our appointed meeting-place!

My task now was to go to a safer place with him, where the Red Death's gaze of golden fire would not be able to find us. There was much I had to tell Raoul, and my heart was fluttering at the thought of Erik's rage, jealousy and despair should he catch us. Quickly, I arrived by Raoul, and touched his hand gently. I knew it was him, for I had told him to dress as a white domino so I would be able to recognise him. It was quite an effective disguise for him, too; if I had not known beforehand, I never would have guessed it was the Vicomte with only his fair hair as a clue!

When he felt my hand on his, he looked up sharply, blue eyes shining brightly behind his mask. An excited whisper passed his lips: 'Chris-'

I quickly motioned for him to be silent, for I knew of Erik's infamously sharp ears, and was certain he always knew when my name was spoken. I pulled on Raoul's hand, urging him to follow me, which he thankfully did, without question. We crossed the room and I searched for a safe place. Such a place would be difficult to find; the Red Death was parading himself around the Opéra now, and had left the grand foyer, too, with his procession. I had spent so long in his company that I could sense his dark presence from a mile off...which helped me to steer Raoul and I away from wherever he was.

In the end, we arrived in a box in the deserted Grande Salle - thankfully not the infamous Box Five. I was just on the verge of firmly shutting the door when I heard the unmistakeable, soft sound of footsteps on the stairs outside. There was only one man I knew with footsteps so strangely light...

'He's coming down!' I breathed to myself in horror. Unfortunately, Raoul heard me, and seized by curiosity he rushed over to look. Then, he turned as white as a sheet.

'I cannot believe it! So it is _him_!' he gasped, then glared. 'This time he shall not be so elusive - I shall catch him and -'

'_Who_, Raoul? Who are you talking about?' I asked in shock. Surely he could not mean _Erik_...

'The spectre I saw in Perros-Guirec! The one who dragged me across the ground and placed me on the altar steps when I fainted! It's the demon from the cemetery! And also, I have come to believe, your "_Angel_"!'

He tried to get past me, but I held him back with all my might, for I had seen those great, long legs clad in red velvet slowly appearing down the stairs.

'Let me past, Christine! I have a score to settle with him! That clever mask he wears does not fool me - I shall tear it from his face and see who he _really_ is!' Raoul snarled.

'No, Raoul! Please, for the sake of the only one I love!' I entreated. Shock ceased his struggles and I managed to close the door. When I faced him, his eyes narrowed again.

'So you do love him, then?' he asked contemptuously.

I sighed. 'I meant _you_, Raoul. You are the one I -'

But Raoul was shaking his head. 'Don't try to fool me, I know it's not true at all! If you really loved me, you wouldn't be always running off with that mysterious friend of yours! And not only are you lying to me now, but you are also lying to poor old Madame Valerius! I went to see her, I'll have you know, and the woman still believes you're with your "Angel"!'

'Raoul -'

'You have certainly changed, Christine,' he cut me off, glaring at me. 'This isn't like you one bit. It's as if you are an entirely different person - maybe you have indeed grown out of your kindness and innocence! You are so anxious to run from me, and you betray my trust to run about with a man dressed as the Red Death...'

I bore these unkind words well enough, even though they hurt me so. The important thing was to keep Raoul in the box with me, for I knew that Erik was somewhere in the corridor on the other side of the door.

'I cannot even guess why I consented to come here!' Raoul said bad-temperedly. 'I should have stayed at home, and avoided you as you have been avoiding me - but that would have still been convenient for you, since you still have your _friend_ with you! To think I had recently longed to give my name to you! I was such a fool, since you obviously do not feel any part of what I felt for you! I _despise_ you!'

I stared at him, wounded. He was angry, and just as hurt as I was. He gazed back at me, his expression of rage turning to misery. All of a sudden he looked very young, and so terribly hopeless...oh, if only he knew!

'I shall forgive you for what you have just said, Raoul, since I know you are suffering as much as I am,' I told him coolly.

'Ha! Indeed,' he muttered contemptuously, turning away, but I took hold of his arm.

'Raoul, this will be the last time we meet,' I told him. 'You will probably never see me again after tonight.'

This did not seem to stir any emotion in him but jealousy.

'I suppose it's your secret companion again, is it not?' he put forth scathingly. 'And where will you be running off with him this time?'

I opened my mouth, but the awful truth just would not come. I found myself entirely unable to confide in Raoul what I had first intended to tell him...powerless to tell him about Erik, and the tragedy that surrounded us. This hard, glacial young man Raoul had become would never believe me.

'If you still had faith in me, Raoul, I would have told you by now,' I said sadly.

He ran his hands through his hair agitatedly. 'You will be the death of me, Christine!' he cried. 'Why can you not tell me? You are perfectly free...look, you wander the Opera house at will! Tell me now, or I fear I shall go mad with your mysteries!'

'It's...it's terrible, Raoul...' my voice shook uncontrollably in my helplessness, and I removed my domino mask to wipe away the tears that had spilled from my eyes, for the very first time in my life ashamed to cry before my old friend. 'I...everything is so hard to bear...'

At the sight of my tears, Raoul's anger vanished.

'Oh, Christine...oh, Christine, forgive me for all I have said!' he murmured. 'Look at you...your face is so white! Dear Christine!' Before I knew it, he had taken me in his arms, and my tears were being cried into his warm chest. The ruffles of his costume were soft against my face, and his warm embrace was infinitely comforting and secure. I breathed in the scent I had long forgotten, the scent that reminded me of days long gone. He held me while my body shook with suppressed sobs, and we stood still and silent in the empty box - two children clinging onto each other for comfort in a frightening, unfamiliar world.

Then I recalled that Erik had told me, before we had left his lair, that he was to meet me in my dressing room to take me back to his ghastly lair. All I wanted was to go home to Mamma Valerius and not have to stay with a semi-insane corpse who was full to the brim with human suffering. I wanted to be a child again, with a protector to save me from the shadows in my mind...but I had none, and I needed to face reality if I was to survive.

'I must leave you now, Raoul,' I whispered, and he let go of me. I put my mask on, then walked to the door of the box. Turning, I said to Raoul: 'I forgive you for everything you have just said. Goodbye, Raoul.'

He made as if to follow me, but I shook my head and he could only watch forlornly as I left him, still full of the agony of questions unanswered.

* * *

I sat in my dressing room a short while later, waiting for Erik to make his appearance. Lately I found I had grown to pity him rather than hate and fear him...partially because there were too many people already who hated and feared him. I was beginning to see Erik as the man he really was...perhaps there was more human in his heart than monster. It was hard to imagine what his life must have been like; all I could be certain of was that it had been so full of pain that he was now on the verge of madness - if not half insane already.

'Poor Erik,' I sighed aloud, compassion welling up within my heart for the man driven underground to escape the torment of the world.

Then, I lifted my gaze in wonder as the strains of a most beautiful song came echoing through my dressing room walls. The music was growing closer and closer, until it was inside the room itself, surrounding me with its exuberant harmonies. I recognised the tune well enough: it was the wedding aria from Romeo and Juliette. The voice that sang it so melodically and sweetly was also one I was closely acquainted with. It was the voice I had heard in this room for three months...the very same voice that had made its odd proposal only a few hours before. I knew why he sang this wedding aria so gaily; I could well imagine the beaming smile that twisted his dead mouth while he sang, that dead mouth that could somehow produce the voice of an Angel...an Angel of Music.

I stood up, enraptured.

'I am here, Erik,' I spoke. 'I have kept my word. You are the one who is late.'

The singing rose to even greater heights of passion, hypnotising me with its rapturous vibrancy. '_Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!_' Erik sang out, the very power of his voice making me start walking slowly towards the mirror in a trance-like state. Dreamily, I recalled that this was where I had disappeared into Erik's world the last time I had been here...his singing seemed to grow stronger the nearer I got to the mirror.

I approached my own reflection, the reflection I was no longer able to fully recognise. The girl in the mirror was pale and drawn, eyes dark-ringed and haunted, her expression vacant, under a spell...could this truly be me? It was no wonder, then, that Raoul had been able to pity me so!

Inexorably, I approached the mirror, reaching out with my hands -

The lights extinguished with a hiss, and I was met with cold air and an equally cold, bony gloved hand that took mine gently as my surroundings reflected all around me in confusion. Just before the Red Death took me to his dark lair, I was almost certain that I saw a pale shape in my dressing-room, reflected in the mirror...a pale shape dressed as a white domino, rushing forwards only to disappear from my sight as the mirror locked back into place.

Erik swept an arm tentatively but affectionately about my shoulders, sheltering me beneath his cloak. As he led me away into darkness, I caught the sinful smile curling his lips.

_Don Juan triumphs._


	12. Chapter 11: A Second Engagement

_**A/N: **__**Heehee, what fun! Thank you very much, Chantal (there will be more spell-falling soon! And lots and lots more madness in the chapter after this one...), MadLizzy (Philippe is guaranteed another appearance, I just find him so interesting. Glad you liked it!) and Madhatter45 (Aww...Erik's already a few hours dead in the prologue, and I can't see how I can bring him back to life again, unfortunately. But don't despair, dearie! He has several chapters of life ahead of him.) for the reviews. They always make my day!**_

_**We get to meet Mama Valerius in this chapter...**_

* * *

The ring, which had always seemed so ominous an object to me, proved to be quite ordinary-looking, made of plain gold and bearing no mark. I stared at it as it lay still in Erik's long, pallid palm, bright against his white skin. When I glanced up, I saw his eyes shining as merry a gold as the ring itself, his rather wolfish teeth bared in a grin of pure joy as he gazed at me.

'Do you like it?' he asked me with childlike eagerness.

'Yes, I do,' I replied, my eyes returning to the ring to avoid seeing the look on his face. I hoped he would not see that I was only trying to keep him happy, as I knew how fragile his emotions were.

It seemed that he believed me entirely, for his slender hand slowly, tentatively reached out for mine. Gathering my courage, I did not flinch as the cold, dry fingers touched my hand, and allowed him to slip the gold band onto my finger. His eyes were glistening with emotion, and I prayed that he would not cry again...

When the cool metal was finally around my finger, I surprisingly felt no different; I had always expected this bizarre engagement to be punctuated by a crash of thunder or something dramatic and sinister to mark the moment that I pledged my heart to a man like Erik. However, nothing happened, but still I felt an odd sensation. I never expected to be married like this; whenever I contemplated matrimony as a child, I had always thought of being given a ring after a romantic dinner by a handsome man I loved with all my heart. The reality was so sadly different: I was accepting my ring while deep under the ground with a semi-insane, wretched corpse whom I was unsure _what_ I felt for. The fact that I no longer hated and feared Erik quite so intensely shocked me; I found now that I felt a deep, painful pity for him, as well as some other emotion I could not place. Nevertheless, this engagement scared me, and it was with wide eyes that I perused the ring now on my finger.

'I understand, Christine, that I am not the most marriageable fellow at best,' Erik told me humbly, 'which is why I shall allow this not to be a _real_ engagement, if you wish it. It is unlike me to be so forward, you see...Regard this ring foremost as a symbol of my love, rather than an obligation of matrimony. As long as you wear this ring, Christine, no harm shall ever befall you - I give you my word. With it on your finger, you shall be safe.' His tone abruptly became dark and sinister. 'But if it were ever to leave your pretty finger, my love, then it shall only be woe to you. Lose it and Erik cannot say _what_ could happen.'

'I shall always keep it with me,' I pledged to him, breathless and shaking at this advice that sounded curiously like a threat. Erik's grim expression abruptly broke into a smile, and he looked so happy that I didn't have the heart to stop him when he reached out with a bony hand and stroked my hair with an affectionate gentleness.

'Oh, Christine...' he sighed contentedly, curling his fingers about my locks. A thoughtful look came over him. 'I suppose I shall have to trust you enough to let you go home to Madame Valerius soon...'

I started. 'How did you know her name?' I asked him suspiciously, slightly fearful. However, my suddenly sharp tone had little effect on him.

'I am your protector, Christine,' he told me with calm gentleness, his voice soothing my anxiety. 'It is only natural that I should know a lot about you...' I shivered inwardly at the thought of a skeletal shadow following me and secretly gathering information on everything about me and those who surrounded me, but still I made no attempt to dislodge his loving hand from my hair. He turned his head to one side. 'But before you leave me, I should like to play you some music. Would you care to hear it?'

I nodded in genuine affirmation; Erik's music was always so otherworldly and beautiful that one could never tire of it. He was in so joyous a mood that his music was bound to be even more heavenly than normal.

Gallantly offering me his arm without a trace of shyness, he led me away to a corner were a large, intricate golden harp stood. Beaming, he procured a stool for me, and then perched himself on a seat of his own, pulling the lovely instrument towards him. Reaching out, he placed his hands over the multitude of long, taut strings that all looked almost identical to me, and then proceeded to play. The opening arpeggio he began with instantly lifted me as I listened in rapture to the soft, gentle fluidity of the rising and falling notes. His deft fingers picked out with effortless ease different strings that shivered out notes in perfect harmony with each other, and soon a haunting, beautiful tune began to ring from the instrument under his dexterous hands. It was in a distinctly Eastern style, played in a way I had never heard before. Through the rhythmic dance of the strings he plucked, I could see sweeping deserts, colourful mosaics, domed palaces and fiery sunsets. My eyes hovered over the oriental hangings I could see nearby, and I began to wonder. When the tune drew to a soft, tremulous close, I slowly came back to reality.

'That was wonderful, Erik,' I breathed truthfully, and he smiled at me adoringly.

'I am glad you like it, my love,' he replied. 'It is a melody inspired from several pieces of music I heard in the East.'

'So you have been to the orient?' I asked in awe. My father's stories had also included a fair amount of Eastern magic, and I wondered at how well-traveled Erik was.

He nodded, turning his head to contemplate the hangings I, too, had looked at.

'How far East did you go? Which countries did you visit?' I enquired politely. He smiled at my interest.

'I have ventured very, very far, my dearest,' he told me. 'Russia...India...Persia...Turkey...Vietnam...yes, I suppose Vietnam is the furthest East I have been.'

My eyes widened.

'I never knew!' I gasped. Naturally Vietnam would have been the furthest East he had ventured; there was no more East _left_ when one got to such a far-off place! If one was to try and travel further East, one would end up America - which was in the West! I stared at Erik in new wonder; it amazed me how far he had travelled, and then shut himself underground for years. He had been to places I had only dreamed of...who could say what marvellous sights he must have seen? 'Your travels must have been so wonderful...' I sighed wistfully, but for some reason a strange look passed over Erik's face and he looked away.

'They were exciting, yes...but I would not say wonderful,' he said quietly, in a hushed, grim tone that smothered my happy wonderment. What did he mean by this? Perhaps he had had something bad happen to him...or even done something bad himself...there was no way I would ever know, for he seemed unwilling to talk about it.

Erik unfolded his long legs and got to his feet, giving me a reassuring smile...or, at least, what he seemed to imagine was reassuring. 'I shall return you now, my dearest...but promise me you will come back!' he demanded.

'I promise,' I replied immediately, only thinking of going home to Mama Valerius. Erik took my hand gently in his, with great affection, and gazed at the ring I now wore. His eyes then turned to mine.

'I shall show you, Christine - I shall show you that Erik can behave like the true gentleman he never was,' he told me. 'You shall see that Erik is capable of parting with the one he loves most in accordance to her wishes. I shall be courteous and allow you to leave me for a while, for the sake of your contentment. Of that I am sure Erik is capable!' He was grimly optimistic as he led me away; it seemed he was setting himself a challenge by trying to please me as much as possible in order for my return to him to be secured. He wanted me to see him as a man perfectly able to part with me for a while, and not obliged to possessively retain me within his ghastly lair. He believed I would begin to truly love him if I thought of him as a considerate and courteous man - which he actually could be, from time to time, although he did not know it.

We did not speak in the rowboat as Erik glided the oars through the silent water; only when we reached the opposite bank did we make any exchange. Erik helped me out of the boat, and I did not flinch at his icy hands - I found myself now accustomed to his cold, deathly touch and was managing to ignore it, which visibly elated him.

He had explained to me how to safely reach the surface from this point beyond the lake, and had instructed me to come to this very place when I returned. I had shuddered at the thought of the journey into darkness, but he had considerately given me a lantern and told me the shortest route to the surface. Now it was time for us to part.

'I have seen you off this far - are you certain you shall manage your way in the darkness?' Erik enquired hopefully.

'Yes, I am sure I shall,' I replied firmly. In the dim light of the lantern that cast its rays over the glassy water, I saw him hang his head slightly. The semi-darkness obscured his distorted features, hiding them from view but emphasising the tall, somewhat graceful outline of his skeletal body. He looked just like any man, albeit his emaciated frame...now, as he gave off such a forlorn air, I found my heart stir with pity and...affection? In the absence of light it was almost possible to care for him, and it was this that made my body start forwards of its own accord and my arms tentatively encircle the base of his bony chest.

I almost shivered as I felt the impossibly narrow girth of his body, the unhealthy absence of thicker flesh where there should have been some. Even through his dark jacket I could feel the jut of his ribs and the worrying over-prominence of his spinal column. For some reason, though, this failed to sicken and terrify me as much as it should have...instead, I felt the overwhelming urge to comfort him and to see him in better health...

At my sudden proximity, Erik's breath caught in surprise and his limbs began to tremble. For a moment I wondered if my shy embrace was too much for him, and he would extricate himself from my hold - but then I became aware of his own sharp, stick-like arms coming to rest on me. A long, uncontrollably shaking hand touched my hair, his other arm afraid to hold me too tightly in case I took fright and let him go. I could smell his odd, particular scent - one acquired through years of travel and a rough life rather than a bottle of cologne. The hard bones of his chest moved my head with his uneven breathing, and I became even more conscious of how insubstantial his body was - as insubstantial as a phantom's, in fact...But then I heard a sound, deep under his fine garments, thin flesh and pronounced bones. It was a sound that proved to the world that he was not a corpse, he was not a dead man...but a real, living person...

The watery, muffled thuds of Erik's heart were quick but heavy, hammering loudly beneath my ear. I listened, engrossed, to the noise of Erik's life, enraptured by the deep booms. Then, to my surprise and mild worry, one beat came slightly late, but was followed by two more beats at twice the pace. This irregularity surely was not normal, nor healthy for him...I decided that I did not want to cause something awful to happen to him by over-stimulating his heart, and drew away gently.

I could not see Erik's expression, but the broken whisper of my name was enough for me to guess at it. 'Oh, Christine...' he sighed.

'Goodbye, Erik,' I told him.

'Goodbye! Goodbye, my dearest love!' he replied, and with a hint of uncharacteristic reluctance I left him. Just before I was out of sight, though, I glanced back at him. He was on his knees, with his arms crossed over his chest, looking absolutely wretched to see me go.

* * *

'Oh! Look who's here!' the good-natured coo of old Mama Valerius made me smiled, even as it pained me to see her in her bed instead of on her feet. 'Come over here, _ma mie_, let me see you!'

I obliged whole-heartedly, coming to her bedside and taking her hand lovingly. 'I'm back again,' I told her, and she kissed my hand.

'Oh, how wonderful it is to see you, Christine!' she said, beaming, then a slight hint of worry puckered her brow, touching my face gently with a wrinkled palm. 'Are you feeling well? You look a bit pale...'

'I am in good health,' I reassured her. 'But why are you in bed, Mama?'

'I have just been feeling a little tired lately...my legs aren't as strong as they used to be!' she told me, and I felt a horrible sensation in the pit of my stomach. If I was to lose my dear Mama...oh, I could not bear to imagine it! But she seemed to notice my concern and quickly reassured me: 'Don't you worry, now - you know I'll be up again soon.' A bright, youthful twinkle suddenly gleamed in her watery blue eyes. 'But enough of me - what of you, my dear? Tell me of your stay with the Angel!' She seemed like a child once more in her eagerness to hear the tale she was sure I had to tell. But I could not lie to her...I had to tell her the sorry truth...

My face full of sadness, I took her hand again. 'Oh, Mama, there _isn't_ an Angel of Music,' I told her. 'He doesn't exist.'

But it seemed her childlike conviction knew no bounds, and she merely tapped the side of her nose. 'You can't fool your old Mama, Christine,' she said with happy shrewdness. 'I can see in your eyes that you have heard _music as never was heard before._'

She was absolutely right; but how to explain to her that it was the music of a less angelic being?

'Mama -'

She chuckled. 'I can keep a secret, Christine, don't worry!' she told me gleefully, kissing my hand again. 'Now, why don't you - _oh_!'

Her eyes had suddenly become round and very wide, and she was staring straight at the hand of mine she held - the hand with Erik's ring on the fourth finger. She beamed up at me with sparkling eyes.

'Oh, Christine, _Christine_! What is this?' she demanded excitedly.

I took my hand away modestly. 'It's nothing,' I said - this, too, would be beyond me to explain.

'Nothing? It most certainly is not! Let me see it again, Christine! Ooooh, how lovely!' she said, clasping her hands together. 'This can only mean you are soon to be married! Oh, I am so happy for you! To think: my little Christine, to be wedded! Ooooh!'

_If you knew what manner of creature your little Christine's husband was to be, you would not be quite so delighted_, I thought morosely.

'No, Mama...it is not so certain...let us not talk of it, please!'

Puzzled though she was, Mama Valerius obliged and said nothing more about it. I felt hopeless; when would I ever be able to fully share the truth?

Mama Valerius and I shared a peaceful afternoon together, she knitting and I making lace. Back with my adoptive mother and familiar surroundings, the horror of Erik seemed so far away, as if it had never happened. I could remember every detail of what I had experienced, but it seemed to me more like an intensely vivid dream. Perhaps it was a dream? Perhaps there never was a deformed genius who pined for me in his subterranean lair...

But then I saw my ring; it was plain, yes, but very real indeed. I touched it tentatively, remembering that it was _Erik_ who had given me this, to guarantee my protection...

There was a knock at the door. I presumed, at first that it was the maid, but then the door opened and in walked none other than Raoul de Chagny.

He was outfitted in a dark blue jacket that was quite becoming to him, and his youthful, shy features looked rather surprised to see me calmly sitting by Mama Valerius's side. Quickly, I set aside my lace and stood, politely offering my hand to him. Raoul, however, just stared at me with wide blue eyes. He looked so boyish with such an expression that even his thin moustache did not make him appear older.

We both stood still and unmoving until Mama Valerius's laugh unfroze us both.

'Monsieur de Chagny! Do you not recognize our dear Christine?' she said. 'Her Angel has sent her back to us!'

'Mama, please - I have told you already that the Angel of Music does not exist,' I reminded her.

'But Christine, you were taught for three months! You yourself told me that!' she replied.

'Let us not talk of this now, Mama; I'm sure Monsieur de Chagny did not come here for it,' I said, for this was not a conversation I wished to have in front of Raoul. It shamed me to be telling Mama Valerius that the Angel did not exist in front of the very person I had once been so eager to convince the opposite.

Raoul seemed to recover the power of speech, for he stepped forwards and said, with sudden and abrupt maturity: 'No, Mademoiselle - I _have_ come to speak to you about your "Angel". There is something strange afoot, and I fear, Christine, that you are in reasonable danger -'

My old adoptive mother stiffened and the colour drained from her face. I suddenly hated Raoul for causing the poor woman such distress, as her usually merry eyes filled with agitation. '_Mais que voulez-vous dire par cela, Monsieur_?' she exclaimed. 'What do you mean by that? My Christine, in danger? How can this be?'

Raoul looked straight at me, addressing both of us at the same time. 'There is somebody taking advantage of her trusting nature.'

'What? Who? Pray, tell me, before I die of worry!'

'I don't know who it is - but I know that this is a mystery which could prove deadly.'

'No, Mama, don't believe him, don't believe what he says!' I desperately told Mama Valerius, grasping her hand to reassure her. But it was too late; Raoul's truthful, handsome blue-eyed gaze seemed to have convinced her fully that I was indeed in danger. She began to sigh most terribly and hopelessly, and then looked at me imploringly. 'Please, Christine, promise to never leave me. If this young man speaks the truth, then you mustn't leave me! I could not bear it if something were to happen to you, my darling child...'

Now Raoul turned to me. 'Christine, you must promise - for all of our sakes. We will not ask anything about what has happened - we only ask that you stay here,' he told me, for once fully sounding his three-years' maturity over me. This I could not stand.

'_Monsieur _de Chagny, what right do you think you have to order me about like this?' I demanded angrily. 'I am free to do what I please without your express consent! You are not my father, nor are you my husband, so I cannot see what authority you could possibly have over me! If being married means I am to be commanded so, then I shall never be wed!' I gesticulated dismissively, and then suddenly Raoul darted forward, grabbing my hand. '_Lâche-moi_!' I cried in outrage. 'Let me go! What are you doing?'

'Why do you talk of never marrying, mademoiselle, when you wear a _ring_?' Raoul said snipingly, finally letting go of my hand. My face flushed, and I glared at him.

'It is simply a gift!' I replied.

'Somebody wishes to marry you, Christine, and you have accepted him by wearing his ring!' Raoul cried, his voice full of anger and deception.

'That's precisely what I said!' agreed Mama Valerius from the bed. Did I have no ally in this battle?

'And what did she reply?'

'That, Monsieur, is none of your business!' I countered heatedly.

'It makes no difference - I know now that the man who talks to you through your dressing-room wall - whose mere voice fills your eyes with such wonder - is the same man who has put that ring on your finger!' Raoul accused. 'The only thing you must tell me is _who this man is_!'

I was appalled by his sheer audacity. 'I shall never tell you that, Monsieur de Chagny!'

Thankfully, Mama Valerius now took my side of the argument - perhaps due to the hostility in Raoul's voice...which I guessed was jealousy-driven, since I had witnessed the same in Erik before.

'All that matters to me is that she loves this man!' she said, crossing her arms. 'Is that not right, Christine?'

'But Madame - I am not so certain that the man Christine admires so ardently is actually deserving of her affections!' Raoul argued.

My eyes widened in complete shock. If Raoul knew how wretched and despairing Erik was, or why, he would most certainly not be saying those awful words! How could he say that Erik, deprived of any love for the entirety of his life because of his face, did not deserve any compassion and kindness? White-faced with outrage, I turned on Raoul.

'Raoul, you know nothing about this man, and I think it is entirely up to _me_ who I give me affections to!' I said. '_Nobody_ knows about this man - therefore you are in no position to judge him so cruelly!

But Raoul only returned my piercing gaze. 'Ah, you are wrong about my knowing nothing about this lover of yours!' he told me. I frowned. What could he mean by that? Nobody knew Erik...at least, nobody that I was acquainted with. 'I know that he goes by the name of "_Erik_"!'

At the sound of that name, my chest constricted, and I blanched. How could Raoul have gained this information? How did he know? I looked at him with wide eyes. 'Who told you this?' I whispered.

'You said it yourself! You were sighing over a "poor Erik", in your dressing room after you vanished from me at the ball! It so happens that I overheard your sighs!'

Fury took over my terror.

'Raoul! That is the second time that you listen at my door! Did I not warn you enough?' I cried.

'No, mademoiselle, I was not behind the door, I was in the room with you - I was in the alcove, but you did not see me!' Raoul revealed. I was shocked at his sheer nerve, and seized by fear. To think he had been in the room the entire time...if Erik had known...if Erik had seen him...

'Raoul, never enter my dressing room again, I beg you! Do not even approach it!' I pleaded, taking his hands. 'It is too dangerous for you!'

He set his lip, sadness and anger battling within him.

'Then I assume we shall not see each other again,' he remarked gruffly.

'Do not say such a thing, Raoul, of course we shall - I shall send for you,' I promised him. 'In fact, I wish to meet with you tomorrow.'

'Tomorrow?' Raoul repeated, then nodded, all of his anger now abated. 'Very well, then...oh, Christine, I am glad to know that this will not be the last time we meet...' I met his gaze and was surprised to see his earnest eyes full of a soft adoration that reminded me of the time we spent in Bretagne. _Oh, Raoul..._

Then, kissing my hand and bidding Mama Valerius good-day, he turned and left, coat billowing out behind him and flaxen locks gleaming as he passed the window and disappeared down the hallway.

* * *

When Raoul and I met the following day, my resentment towards him had gone, and I was far kinder to him to make up for it. Raoul, too, it seemed, was embarrassed by our argument, but he had enough presence of mind not to enquire further on the subject of the voice who talked in my dressing room.

We talked together for quite a while, and Raoul revealed to me that there had been a change of plans in the polar expedition he was to embark on - the ship would leave in a month's time, due to some delays.

Travel had always held appeal to me. 'Oh, to think what sights you will see, Raoul!' I sighed dreamily. 'And your expedition will make you so famous! Everybody will talk of you!'

However, for some reason Raoul appeared quite dejected. 'What is fame without love?' he murmured quietly. I comforted him gently, but he would not hear of it. Turning to me with pained eyes, he said: 'Christine, after I go on this expedition, I will never see you again! The Pole is a dangerous place - many have died there, and I could very well die there too! And you - you would disappear somewhere with your friend!' A thought seemed to come to him. 'Unless you promise me you will wait for me, as I will wait for you -'

I sighed. 'Oh, Raoul, you know that cannot happen,' I told him. 'We cannot marry, for more reasons than one.' I felt terrible for bringing such dejection on him, but I knew that we would never be able to be man and wife. Unless...suddenly an idea formed itself. I turned to him. 'But I suppose nothing prevents us from being _engaged_...he told me I cannot marry, but he never said I could not be engaged!' I pondered aloud. 'Let us be engaged, Raoul! Even if it is just for a month - we can have a secret engagement, and nobody will know but us!' Quieter, I added: 'This will harm no one.'

Raoul seemed taken by the idea, and, eyes bright with joy, knelt willingly at my feet. A sudden, dark memory of a tall, skeletal man doing the same flashed briefly through my mind, but I banished it, concentrating instead on my dear, dear Raoul, whom I had shunned so cruelly. He looked so wonderful and so earnest when he asked in a proper and formal manner for my hand, that I laughed out in glee and gave him both hands straight away. How dearly I loved him, my old friend from the sunny Bretagne days! This engagement would give us the happiness we deserved together, even if it was only for a month. What joy these coming weeks would be!

* * *

The engagement between Raoul and I was a delightful one; we played the parts of future man and wife quite charmingly. We had great fun together, taking outings and making great speeches to each other. We were safe in the knowledge that this little game would have no consequence, that in a few weeks' time none of it would matter any more. But of course, this was at times heartbreaking, and we would weep together just as often as we would laugh.

Every day, I wrote a long letter to Raoul expressing my love in the most flowery, heartfelt language I could muster, and every afternoon the two of us would meet in my dressing room before an outing. All of it was so lovely and carefree that I never wanted reality to steal this dream away again.

But then, on the eighth day of our engagement, reality's grim hand threatened to crush our fragile happiness.

We were sitting together, as usual, in my dressing room. We always came there for a glass of port and some small biscuits that Raoul always bought - since he knew which ones I liked best. I had put the usual cloth over our table, and put a small vase of violets upon it to complete the pretty image. I smiled dotingly at Raoul, sitting opposite me with a few crumbs of the very crumbly _palettes Bretons_ around his mouth. Just like a little wife, I took up a napkin and brushed them from his lips, making him laugh. We were so at ease in my dressing room, as it was far from others, and I knew that the masked phantom had given his word not to watch behind my mirror again for the sake of my privacy, so we were perfectly safe. Nevertheless, I glanced occasionally at the huge, gold-framed mirror - and I knew Raoul did, too - but all I could see in it was the reflection of my fiancé and I sitting happily opposite each other eating Breton biscuits. An idyllic image, so charming that I dreaded the time when it would end.

It seemed that this was exactly what was passing through Raoul's mind, for after a while he ceased to smile and talk joyfully and instead looked tortured and agitated.

'Raoul, _mon fiancé bien aimé_!' I said softly and soothingly. '_Qu'as-tu donc?_ What is it wrong?'

Mouth turned straight down at the corners, the young vicomte put his empty glass of port down on the table with a _thunk_.

'I have decided not to go on the expedition!' he declared. My insides froze.

'But, Raoul, you must - it is a great privilege, and you should do it while you are still young enough!' I told him, trying to make him see sense. 'Besides, you love sailing so much - you adore the sea! It would be silly to deprive yourself of this opportunity.' The other reason for him to go remained unspoken, but I knew that he was well aware of it.

'Christine, I love you!' Raoul cried in anguish, rising from his chair to kneel at my feet, his cravat askew. 'I have always cherished you - from when we were children, when you first smiled at me after I got you your scarf back! I cannot leave you here with so many threats around to you. There is nobody to protect you as I would - Mama Valerius cannot save you if you were to be spirited away again!'

I felt the ring warm against my finger, but knew better than to tell Raoul that I already had a firm protector. Instead, I said: 'Raoul, I assure you I am perfectly safe.'

'That is not my meaning! What I wish to say is that to leave you would be to leave my whole heart here! I would die!' he exclaimed, his features twisted with despair and his eyes shining.

'No, Raoul, you mustn't die,' I said softly, putting my arms around his neck and cradling his head to me. 'Let us not talk of this - let us concentrate only on our very near future.'

'Very well,' Raoul mumbled half-heartedly. 'Would you care for dinner with me at _L'Arlequin _tonight?'

I smiled at him. 'I would be glad to,' I replied. '_Je serais ravie, mon cher monsieur!_'

* * *

Raoul had arranged to meet me outside the Opéra, as he would have a carriage ready to take us to _L'Arlequin_, which was on the other side of the city. I had just finished getting ready in my dressing room, and as I adjusted my hair I contemplated with grimness the conversation about the expedition that Raoul and I were sure to have quite soon. I did not wish to think about it; if Raoul left, I would be heartbroken, but if he stayed, we would both be in grave danger - either way, there was no hope. Oh, dearest Raoul...I now wished never to plague his innocent, youthful mind with the fearsome knowledge of Erik. I had hoped he would be gone to the Pole and never have to worry about the man who lived as a phantom in the Opera house...

As soon as I was satisfied with my appearance, I went over to one of the small candelabra on a table to blow it out. I leant forwards -

I paused, then frowned, staring at one of the candles. There was something strange about its flame...it was not pointing straight upwards, but leaning slightly to the side, as if blown by a wind. The wick was perfectly straight, though...I held my breath in case I was unconsciously blowing it, but it had no effect. As I watched in surprise, _all_ of the candles' flames began to stream to the side, billowing smoke before sputtering out _entirely by themselves_.

I backed away in shock from the now-extinguished candelabra, and looked towards the other candles in the room. They, too, were going out after flaring sideways, and the oil lamps were flickering in a frightening manner. Now filled with dread, heart pounding, I backed away further. When the last candle went out, adding to the misty smoke curling languorously about, I was left in no doubt that this all-too-familiar spontaneous darkness was heralded the presence of the Opera Ghost...and I knew nothing good could come of this imminent encounter while _he_ was seeking _me_ out and I was engaged to Raoul...

Seized by shock, I ran to the dressing room door, turning the handle and cursing the many occasions Raoul and I had allowed ourselves to be seen in public. There were many ways Erik could have found out...but all that mattered to me now was to escape and run to Raoul, who I knew was waiting outside.

I rattled the handle. Locked! Locked from the outside, and no key on the inside!

I turned around in desperation, then gave a cry as in the otherworldly mist swirling from the extinguished candles I saw a tall, grim and skeletal figure standing there with the smoke curling about his long legs. Mouth opened in silent horror, I looked at the expressionless, white mask from which a livid golden fire burned in the eye-holes. A soft, icy purr sounded from behind it: 'You cannot run from _me_, Christine. I am everywhere - and I know of everything!'

* * *

**-**_**Raoul-**_

* * *

Where could she be? Raoul paced back and forth in front of the fine carriage he had summoned, growing increasingly agitated at the absence of his beloved fiancée. It was not like her to keep him waiting so long - perhaps she had forgotten of their _rendez-vous_?

'Monsieur! Monsieur le Vicomte?' a voice called out. Raoul turned, and saw a flustered man running towards him, waving a piece of paper.

'What is it?' he asked the man as he drew up to him.

'I was told to give you this,' said the man, handing him the paper he held. Raoul took it from him, frowning, and read it. It was a letter, written in a neat, though laboured, italic script, and in red ink. It read:

'_Cher et estimé Vicomte; je regrette de vous informer que Mademoiselle Christine Daaé est malheureusement indisponible. Je vous prie de l'excuser, et je suggère que vous vous divertissez autrement ce soir. Je demeure, monsieur, votre fidèle serviteur - F.O._'

What was the meaning of this? Christine, "sadly unable to come"? "I beg you excuse her, and I suggest that you entertain yourself differently tonight?"? And what was this - "I remain your obedient servant - O.G"? Who was this "O.G"?

Raoul's face drained of its furious colour as he realised. The one who had taken Christine away the previous time was Erik - which surely meant that now she was being led away by him again! And O.G - that must be the signature of the Opera Ghost himself, who had so vexed the managers! Raoul's hands began to shake. If what he presumed was right, and Erik and the Opera Ghost - the _Fantome de l'Opera_ - were one and the same, then Christine was in grave, grave danger! Raoul despaired. He did not know where she had been taken to, nor how...the only thing he could do, which frustrated him to no end, was to wait until he gave her back.

He dreaded to think what predicament Christine was in now...


	13. Chapter 12: The Bitterness of Mortality

_**A/N: **__**Aw…I'm a bit annoyed…there's some Andrew Lloyd Webber stuff being played tonight at the Théatre Musicale de Pibrac – INCLUDING Phantom of the Opera – and I can't go! (Cries for twenty years) But oh, well – I managed to get this chapter done. Thank you to MadLizzy (Well, they are the same thing… :D), Madhatter45 (Of course you weren't annoying! (pats reassuringly) The living wife bit just refers to the way she's **_**acting**_**like a living wife, i.e mopping up her husband to make him look better. There will DEFINITELY be some Charles…in fact, I've planned out a chapter with the title of 'Charles', so you can be sure to see him sometime. Oh yes – and buy Kay's book! My fic's more Leroux-based, but Kay's 'Phantom' is brilliant. I really recommend it. And no, Erik will not die a virgin, as hinted at in the reference to 'marriage bed' in the prologue… ;D), pastheart (I hope this is soon enough!) and Penmora Zenith (I adore sinister…thankies!).**_

_**I give you Chapter 12…**_

* * *

_**-Christine-**_

* * *

It seemed as if Erik's already fragile mind had finally become unhinged.

He had dragged me all the way down to his lair without a word - but in the blaze of his yellow eyes there was a great fury that kept me from struggling, in case there was the slightest chance of him being civil if I was obedient. Now I stood in the middle of his drawing room, shaking like a leaf before the tall wraith-like figure who towered over me. His blank mask made him even more fearsome and imposing, and his angular shoulders trembled with insane rage.

'Engaged, eh? _Engaged!_' he snarled in livid contempt, long hands balled into fists by his sides. 'Ha!' He turned away from me, fingers flexing manically, and he began to wildly soliloquize to the opposite wall. 'Erik is infinitely good to his Christine, he finally musters the courage to part with her for a short while, and she repays him by becoming engaged to the pretty little sailor lad she convinced Erik she would never see again! Either she takes Erik for a gullible fool or is brazenly exhibiting her romantic preferences! _Christine must explain this_.'

My voice shook in my throat, and I stammered: 'Erik, I -'

'No! What good will it do?' Erik screamed, suddenly and contrarily changing his mind. He spun around and fixed me with a mad, wide-eyed glare. 'I _know _everything already - I understand everything already! The dashing young vicomte is _all _that Erik is not - and all that Christine wants! I see now - I see why Christine favours the vicomte over Erik! _Erik is only a hideous corpse with a pretty voice; no matter to what lengths he goes to keep his love safe, HE REPELS HER_!'

I was weeping now in terror, and Erik was gasping for breath from his rant, fists tightly clenched and body poker-straight. He clawed off his mask and flung it across the room, revealing to me his ghastly face, his hair unkempt. Chest heaving, voice so powerfully thundering it was almost physically painful with its furious beauty, he bawled with words rising hysterically: 'Look now upon this horrendous face - look so that I may be sure to what extent I disgust you! Erik has seen - Erik has heard day after day Christine walking through his Opéra with her precious vicomte! He has witnessed their happy laughter and their sickening joy! Poor Erik has had to watch their conversations, that plague him so painfully! But Erik will not stand for it - _you are MINE, Christine - MINE!_ _You are mine and you shall never leave me!_'

My horrified sobs were broken as I stared at the maddened frenzy he had worked himself into. But something else had caught my attention: a dark, thick stream that was steady running from the gaping hole of his nose. Even in his blind rage, he seemed to sense it too, and wiped at it, leaving a garish scarlet smudge of blood across one prominent white cheekbone. For a second he looked at the huge streak now on the back of his hand, and then he gave a great, mocking laugh.

'See, even Erik's health does not match that of the little sailor lad!' he cried. 'Cadavers are not supposed to walk - it becomes awfully tiresome for their dead bodies.' He rubbed away the red mark on his hand, then cocked his head to one side, eyes flashing. 'I was taught revenge by my own mother, Christine - "_If you do that, Erik, I shall smack you!_"..."_Draw on that wall and you shall be locked in your bedroom!_"' he mimicked in the cruel tones of whom I was led to believe was his mother. He did not seem to be exaggerating - but how could a mother talk in such tones to her child? I was horrified at this impromptu glimpse of Erik's obviously terrible childhood. 'I learned from her that displeasing actions must have consequences. That is why I shall no longer toil so hard for your mere gratitude, nor be careful to treat you as civilly as possible - not after you have betrayed my trust and my _love_!'

The gentle, chiming chord of a carriage clock sounded out, and Erik paused in his rant. Abruptly, he straightened up and told me coldly: 'I must leave you; I have a _rendez-vous_ which I must go to. Do not bother attempting to escape, you do not have the intelligence to work the mechanisms of my front door.'

With that rather insulting remark, he turned on his heel and left me, quite alone and stunned, in his ghastly lair.

* * *

**-**_**Nadir**_**-**

* * *

Nadir Khan stared in shock at Erik as he ascended the step up from his rowboat and stood in front of him with his arms crossed behind his back severely. The Persian had arranged this meeting the last time he had encountered the enigmatic Opera Ghost, since first and foremost he wished to enquire about the rumours he had heard about the abduction of a certain Christine Daaé. Erik had assured him she had come to him of her own will, but Nadir was still dubious; he knew of Erik's strange temperaments, riddled speech and twisted logic, and was concerned about the welfare of the girl. After all, Erik was far older than she, and gifted with capacities that had made him quite infamous in Persia. Not only that, but Nadir knew that Erik had never been completely sane since his harsh upbringing, and though he was sure he would never do Mademoiselle Daaé any physical harm, he feared for her mental well-being. He knew of his acquaintance's deep-rooted obsession with the girl, and he hoped nothing destructive would come of it. Ever since his arrival to France quite some time ago, Nadir had haunted the Opéra, and had had quite some encounters with the Opera Ghost. However, he was determined to keep the man in check and make sure that he did not attempt anything foolhardy...

'Erik!' a gasp passed Nadir's lips at the sight of his old acquaintance. The skeletal man's mask was gone, revealing his horrendous face - but that was not what shocked the Persian. What shocked him was the colour of Erik's skin - it was not its usual deathly pallor, but was now a sort of sickly grey. Even more unnerving still was the thick scarlet blood that trickled steadily from his absent nose, dark against his unhealthy-looking skin where it was smeared across his cheek. His eyes were wild and his thick black locks were untidy, his whole frame shaking from head to foot. 'Erik, what in Allah's name has happened to you?'

His mouth opened wordlessly a few times, and then he finally spoke, with a strained voice quite unlike his own. 'I am a little bit vexed,' he told me, eyes wide and fixed at my feet. 'Christine has been most ungrateful towards me, which makes me quite displeased.'

Nadir instantly feared the worst. Could he have harmed her in a fit of rage? 'What have you done to her?' he demanded immediately.

'What? I have done nothing at all - save bringing her to my lair and telling her what my revenge...will be...' Erik swayed a little, his words slightly slurred as he put a hand to his forehead.

'Revenge?'

'Ah, cease the questioning, Daroga, I am feeling a little dizzy,' he told me, fingers visibly trembling as he unconsciously wiped away the blood about to spill over his upper lip. It would be useless to tell him to pinch his nose to stop the flow in this situation. Nadir frowned.

'Erik, you are bleeding,' he remarked.

Erik blinked in puzzlement at the red stains on his hand.

'Oh...yes, it does appear so...' he replied distantly.

Nadir shook his head disbelievingly. 'Erik, if only you would see sense and send for a doctor -'

Weary annoyance stirred in his eyes. 'Don't be a fool, I have told you before that this cannot be cured,' snapped Erik.

'But I'm sure it can be helped - it cannot be right, for you to ignore it in this manner -'

'Oh, do shut up.' Erik wearily turned his back on Nadir. 'I...I think I would much like to sit down for a moment...for I feel...rather...'

He staggered halfway to the boat, then abruptly folded up, falling to the ground and hitting his skull on the bank with an unpleasant crack. 'Erik?' Nadir rushed to him, knelt by the prone man's side and turned him over. He was out cold. Sighing deeply with resignation, he dragged Erik's surprisingly light body across the ground and into the boat. The least he could do was to put him back in his lair; he was guaranteed a safe passage in the rowboat because the infamous Siren that guarded the lake was now lying unconscious in the boat with him.

Grimacing at the blood-splattered face of his acquaintance, Nadir began to row.

* * *

**-**_**Christine-**_

* * *

I cannot say for how long I stayed in that infernal drawing room, trapped like a rat. For what seemed like hours I paced about the general area of the front door, trying to work out how it could possibly be opened. I was determined to seize my chance and escape before Erik could return and inflict the remainder of his terrible rage upon me; however, the drawback was I couldn't find the actual front door. It was so cleverly disguised that even after running my hands over the entirety of the wall I found no sign of it. I was beginning to despair, when suddenly I heard a small click.

Turning round with my heart hammering wildly in my chest, I looked towards the door that had just opened. So there was the front door! But it was too late to attempt escape now; Erik was coming back...

I blinked with surprise as a Persian man, quite unknown to me, stepped into the drawing room. He had not seen me, and I was about to enquire just who he was - and how he had ever managed to enter the master of illusion's home - when I realised that he supported a long, limp body clad in black that could only be Erik. The Persian, not noticing my presence, walked ponderously across the drawing room, weighed down by his tall charge, and dragged Erik into his bedroom. I followed at a distance, curious, grimly avoiding the crimson droplets of blood that marked a trail across the rich rugs. When I looked into Erik's bedchamber, the Persian gentleman had already heaved the man's unresisting form into the coffin. Horror now gripped my heart as I looked upon this morbid scene; I could not prevent the whisper that stole forth from my open lips: 'Is he dead?'

The Persian spun around, startled. Obviously he had not expected to see me.

'Mademoiselle Daaé?' he said in accented French, surprising me as he came towards me. I looked rapidly from him to Erik's prone, still form in the coffin. Had this Persian something to do with Erik's current state? Even though it was reassuring that the anger of the Phantom could not be released, the sight of him so silent and pale scared me. But the Persian man looked as if he meant well; there was a certain honesty about his weathered, tanned face and warm brown eyes that put me more at ease.

'Yes?' I responded, still unsure what to think.

'I had not expected he would have you here - I hope he has not harmed you at all?' the Persian enquired, genuine concern in his eyes that touched me in a way.

'No...no, he has not,' I replied, and he appeared quite relieved.

'What good fortune then - I had feared that he would have done something terrible, judging from his talk of revenge...'

I looked at the foreign gentleman quizzically. 'Forgive me, monsieur, but may I ask who you are?' I asked him. 'I thought nobody but Erik had the ability to enter this home...'

'My name is Nadir Khan,' he told me, with a courteous bow of the head. 'I was a Daroga in Persia - which is, consequently, how I met _him_.' He gestured towards the unresponsive body in the coffin.

My eyes widened. 'You are a friend of Erik's?' I gasped with great wonderment and incredulity. I had always thought that Erik had led a completely solitary life...

The Persian cast his eyes down sadly. 'Mademoiselle, if you know Erik as I do - or I think I do - then you will surely know how hard it is for him to have trust in others, and how hard it is to trust him at times,' he answered in undertone. He cast another look at the coffin. 'No, Erik and I are merely acquaintances with certain obligations towards each other; he saved my life, once, and I saved his. Of course, when I helped Erik flee from Persia, I was cast out myself, and ever since I have haunted the Opera just as the "phantom" haunts it, in my endeavour to make sure nobody comes to any harm under his influence.'

My own gaze now turned to the open, velvet-lined coffin in which there lay the unnervingly immobile body of the Phantom. I turned my worried eyes back to the Persian. 'Is...is he dead?' I asked, seeing the sickly grey tinge of his skin and the garishly bright blood about his nose. The Persian walked over to his side, with me following behind, hands clasped nervously. With his delicate lavender-white eyelids closed over those eyes of golden fire, Erik seemed awfully defenceless. My pity and obscure compassion for this sorry creature overruled my terror of him, for a reason I did not understand.

'I don't believe so,' Nadir remarked matter-of-factly. 'Look, he breathes still.' I watched the thin chest and observed its barely perceptible rise and fall. Even though he still lived, he appeared in a very bad state. 'I warned him not to subject himself to over-stimulation,' Nadir spoke gravely. 'However, I should have known that Erik still has intense emotions that he allows to have free rule of him.'

'I believe he has no choice,' I countered quietly. 'His rages and passions are not easy for him to quell.' I watched Erik's unconscious, fearsome face, and, feeling an unexpected surge of compassion, said: 'I shall care for him.'

'Mademoiselle Daaé, do you not fear the fury he surely must have shown you before he came to meet me?' Nadir asked, pleading me to see reason.

'He is too weak; I do not fear him now,' I replied, casting a sad look over the wasted body. How much more lifeless still did that coffin make him appear!

'Are you sure of this? I am ready to do what I may...but I suppose he did expressly tell me never to set foot in his lair, if I ever made it across that cursed lake...'

'It would not be wise to risk his agitation,' I advised, a selfish, hidden part of me wondering why I was making excuses to look after Erik when I could seize this moment and run back to Raoul...

'You speak sense,' the Persian agreed, looking towards Erik again. 'Very well then; I shall quit you, though it pains me to do so. However, I will give to you this...' - he drew out a small, sheathed dagger - '...should he ever become violent.'

I paled and shook my head. 'No...are you suggesting that I should murder him if he lets his anger take control of him?' I gasped in shock.

'Of course not, my good demoiselle - but through experience with this man I know that it pays to have at least some form of defence,' Nadir told me seriously, and with great reluctance I took the silver, leather-sheathed blade from him. I was only a fiddler's daughter, brought up in happiness, goodwill and music - I would never have the slightest ounce of courage to wield a weapon...especially not against Erik. For, monster though he could be at times, I knew in my heart of hearts that I would never be able to inflict such physical harm upon him.

When the Persian man left me with my pulse hammering in my chest from this decision I had taken, I immediately put the knife away, swearing never to use it. I could not bear it about my person...it needed to be put away. So I hid it, and came slowly back to Erik's side.

Mild anxiety began to boil in my chest. He looked so unwell; if he were to die, how would I get out? I supposed if I ever found the front door, I would have a chance of faring well - but the idea of traversing the black lake in a rowboat did not appeal to me. I seized control of myself, deciding not to dwell on such dark thoughts. The thing to do now would be to make sure Erik could get well.

* * *

I had had the courage to clean the blood from his face, and now its pallor was unmarked by streaks of scarlet. The sponge I had found in the surprisingly ordinary and well-equipped bathroom, and it had been the work of a moment to fill a small metal basin with water and bring it to the bedroom. What had surprised me about the bathroom - apart from the hot and cold running water, of course - was its how completely _normal_ it looked. The only mildly unusual aspect of it was the absence of windows or mirrors, but otherwise everything was not in the slightest bit out of the ordinary. There were even tins of tooth-powder stacked neatly on a shelf, which filled me with awe at how such a strange and abnormal character as Erik could have a bathroom just like any other man's. It only proved how much he desired to be normal, how much he longed to live like other people. I sighed, dropping the sponge back into the basin.

I had taken the liberty of gingerly rearranging Erik's limbs, too; his left arm had been hanging out of the coffin, his legs twisted to the side and neck slightly bent where he had been heaved into the coffin. His skin was so cold, and he was so frightfully thin that I could not bring myself to fully grasp his arm for fear it would break with too much handling. He appeared deceptively fragile when unconscious - or was he rather deceptively tough and resistant to physical harm? It had seemed even a lifetime of rough treatment had failed to crush this bony body's delicate frame. Or was it only now, when he had retreated underground, that his true vulnerability began to show, brought on by the mental tortures he had endured? Either way, I found I could only show him reverence and care at such a moment.

While he slept on, I allowed myself to wander throughout his bedchamber, inquisitive about what I saw. Strange, intricate contraptions, painted figures, rolls of fine paper and yellowing sheets of music lay here and there, eliciting my curiosity. I did not dare touch the contraptions - nor anything else, for that matter - for I felt just like a child tiptoeing carefully around the work of a great adult...surveying all at a distance, for fear of disturbing the intricate harmonies of these little masterpieces of unknown purpose.

The organ I stayed well away from; even far away, the thick, ominous score of the Phantom's sinister opera instilled fear and dread in me, having sipped before from the bitter cup of human suffering forced upon me by its discordant tones. Instead I paced about the desk standing near the opposite wall. It was strewn with its own oddities; small phials of clear but portentous-looking liquids, little boxes of powder labelled in Eastern script. A selection of small, silver knives and scalpels were nestled in a velvet box, while nearby a strange, morbidly artistic construction of a selection of rat bones stood. I stared at the small white skulls and curling rib-cages, as well as the small tub of something that smelt extremely acidic sitting beside them. Another strange smell revealed the presence of small glass cases filled with formaldehyde, where small dissected creatures were preserved. I moved away from this strange sight, only to come upon a hanging that concealed something. Pushing it back, I was puzzled to find myself looking at something which looked very much like a hand-drawn calendar, with each passed day neatly marked off. At first I assumed it was a calendar to help keep track of the passing days, but the more I looked, the more it mathematical this calendar seemed. There were small scribbled calculations - some neater than others - lining the margins, and there was a day, a month or two from now, circled in red ink. Beside it, I saw later dates had been circled, and then crossed out, as if the date of the important event he was waiting for had changed. I wondered what could possibly be happening on that day he had so precisely and with almost clinical neatness marked off...

'Why are you still here, child?' a voice directly behind me spoke. I started and whirled about, coming face-to-face with Erik, who appeared very much awake. How had he risen from that coffin so noiselessly, to come and stand behind me? Was I so engrossed in what I saw that I did not remark his presence?

It was apparent that his loss of consciousness and heavy bleeding had taken its effect on him; his eyes were still bleary, and he seemed unable to hold himself completely straight. His angular shoulders sagged wearily, and his cravat had been removed, the topmost buttons of his shirt undone to reveal the clammy-looking skin of his collarbone, as well as the end of what appeared to be a rather grisly scar that disappeared from sight beneath his shirt. I made no enquiries about this scar; I was certain he had a lot more, and would not like to divulge to me the circumstances in which he had obtained it. It appeared his anger had indeed abated, but was replaced instead by a tired sort of resentment and near-indifference that I did my best to ignore as well as soften.

'You are ill,' I explained quietly. To my surprise, his lips tightened into a humourless smile.

'What a clever girl you are indeed to remark that,' he told me with detached wryness. I did not respond to this, hiding my shame by turning back to the strange calendar.

'Why is this day marked as it is?' I asked, humbly polite, indicating the date circled in scarlet ink.

'Ah, I am glad you asked - for that is a very important day,' he replied with odd dreaminess. 'It is no doubt to be a very happy day for all the world - especially you, Christine.' I wracked my brains but could not for the life of me think what could be celebrated on that particular day. Was it the day of a particular saint? I had no way of knowing.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, my dear child, that the day you see here - which is here communicated as a simple little number - is the day that you will be free,' he explained. 'It is the day that you shall finally be able to fly away from this hideous carcass; it is the day you will be able to leave Erik, safe in the knowledge that he will not follow you or ever vex you ever again.' I could hear no bitterness in his tone, yet here he was telling me that there was I day that I was to be set free...although it should have filled me with hope, I felt rather bemused.

'But Erik - I still don't understand -'

'Let me put it simply, then, my dear,' Erik said with unnerving patience. 'That day I have circled is the day that I will cease to be.'

I turned around to stare at him in shock.

'Cease to - you mean...?'

He smiled at me tiredly. 'Yes, I will die on that day,' he affirmed with spine-chilling serenity.

I was appalled, shocked and terrified all at once. 'You intend to _end_ yourself?' I exclaimed in horror, and Erik's dark eyebrows knitted.

'No, you foolish girl, it will not be necessary: I have made many calculations, and I have worked out the exact date of my impending demise,' he said with mild annoyance. I felt light-headed with this fearsome knowledge.

'But...but how...why are you going to die so...so...?' I asked weakly, unable to finish.

'Soon?' put in Erik, and when I nodded he sighed. 'Christine, Christine...surely you must have noticed by now that I am not a normal person. I was a sickly baby when I was born - I was given not two hours to live. However, for some unknown reason I clung on. You see, my dear, an external deformity such as mine must surely have certain complications on the inside. One might say that I have been dying very slowly, since the moment I was born - someone like me does not have the right characteristics to survive. It is a wonder in itself that I have survived for so long; living in such diverse climates over the world, with physical faults that simply invite deadly diseases...I suppose one cannot be entirely perfect on the inside if one is so horribly imperfect on the outside. It is only a matter of time, really - my body is a broken machine, Christine...like an automaton with a misshapen shell and several cogs missing. No, not even broken - just badly built from the beginning. You could almost say that I have been running on pure malice, so full of the world's evils that I provide my own momentum. I am not fuelled by food and water - only by hate and passion and obsession. Now, however, as I am well past the prime of my life and have not been rushing about quite so much, the damage is beginning to catch up with me. My heart and respiratory passages are in an awful state, and as you can see I am much of a walking skeleton. I have put together several factors and with them obtained the date of my death; though I suppose it is inaccurate now - all this excitement must have knocked another day or two from my life expectancy. Never mind...I shall soon correct my estimate...'

I stared at him in utter shock. How could he be speaking like this, in such a calm manner? Why had he never told me of this before? _How had I never noticed?_

It was an inconceivable idea; I could not believe that the tall man who radiated power even in such a weak state was dying, and had been dying for a long, long time. Fear gripped me at the thought of Erik dying, alone and unloved, in his lair, where _nobody would ever know_. That was what saddened me the most: the fact that nobody would ever know that such a genius had passed away - or, for that matter, even _lived_ at all.

It frightened me - no, it _horrified_ me - to realise that the mighty, formidable Phantom was not as invincible as I had first thought...


	14. Chapter 13: Les Désirs Charnels

_**A/N:**__**Whew...I made sure this chapter was nice and long, the previous one looked a bit short to me. Muchas grazias for the reviews from Madhatter45 (XD The world really is nothing without him! Never mind, he still lives on in fanfiction...) and MadLizzy (I originally had the tins of tooth-powder earlier on but I forgot to put it in...so I just added it in that chapter. There's some more "Erik-the-normal-man" moments in this chapter, too...)**_

_**Watch out...mildly steamy-ish content involving a **__**Very**__** Dark Erik moment (hence this chapter's portentous title)...have fun!**_

* * *

Although he had previously shown me nothing but weary, detached indifference after his raging anger, Erik seemed to begin to seek my love again in many small ways. It seemed as if, unhinged though he was, he wanted me to show him affection and to somehow forget our "argument".

As the day went by, I began to see clearly that although I had seen him display this manner of behaviour before, there was something changed about him. His madness was sad to behold; gone were the clear, calm gazes, replaced by strange bouts of almost child-like conduct. His eyes were restless, and he tried to seek my attentions through the proud displaying of his many talents.

I listened to many a sonata, and scores of organ recitals and numbers played on the violin. Even as his wild, beautiful music put me into a trance-like state, I could still notice the gleam of triumph in his feverish eyes, still remark the upward curl of his lip in a darkly jubilant smile. He was always sure to win me with his music; whenever he played with fingers flitting with graceful rapidity, his entire demeanor seemed to cry out to me: '_Look! Look what I can master! Can you say with an honest heart that your fiancé can ever rise to my rapturous heights?_'. When the banal instruments of lesser mortals became too basic for the might of the virtuoso's passionate playing and the strings of the violin threatened to catch fire beneath the bow that moved with inhuman quickness, Erik would bring forth obscure, complex instruments of his own creation. These I was fascinated by, from afar; both aesthetically elegant and beautifully melodic at the same time, they produced sounds that held me completely spellbound. Some were carved of fine wood, others were made of metal, and some combinations of the two. Erik kept me bewitched as he set the strings of one shivering, and pulled a bow across another to create the most otherworldly, breathtaking wail that filled the room like the lament of an angel. My moods were entirely at his mercy, with his skillful playing - with a simple harmony he could fill my heart with joy and euphoria...and with another he could make me weep most despairingly. When some vestige of calmness returned to him after venting his passions through the medium of one of his own instruments, he explained to me how each one worked. Some, he said, were "dissections" of other instruments, while others had been created completely from scratch. He showed me one that had an intricate interlinking of fine strings, and when one was played, its vibrations set a selection of others humming. This selection could be changed at will, through wheels of wood with other strings attached that could by turned to play a different sequence of notes. It put me in mind of a loom, with its wooden bars of strings, but it was so complicated I was amazed none of it tangled.

The next he showed me was an even odder instrument, made of a number of wheels attached to long bands which enabled them to be turned continuously at varying speeds. Erik extricated a bowed piece of material from beneath his workbench, and pressed it to one of the larger whirling wheels, producing an ethereal hum that heightened in pitch the nearer he placed the supple bowed block to the centre of the wheel. On a smaller wheel, the hum was the hair-raising wail I had heard before, and I sat in stunned silence, believing there to be some manner of spirit singing from those instruments, even as he calmly explained about areas of vibration and frequencies and density of material. None of it made sense to me; I seemed to have sunk into a strange dream, as I always did in the presence of this man, this odd creature whose fearsome genius belonged to another world entirely. The real world that I had come from seemed so distant, so trivial and bland when he showed me the glory of his music. I had only memories of Raoul, and although I knew he would be quite worried about me, when Erik played his music I found myself not thinking of him at all. It was unlike me, but the spell Erik could cast over me was so strong I was held utterly helpless...

* * *

Sometime later, Erik left me by myself in his lair. He did not inform me where he was going; he simply told me he would not be long, and that he was just going to take a breath of fresh air. I spent a long time in the drawing room, wondering what to do. Without Erik here, the place seemed to shrink around me, and I wondered how on earth the man managed to live here all by himself. The minutes and hours passed, and there was no sign of him. I could not possibly imagine what he was out doing at this hour...certainly not buying provisions, since no shops would be open at this hour. What could he be doing?

Then, when I was beginning to grow worried, the front door swung open and a gaunt figure wrapped in a cloak staggered in. Erik slammed the door shut behind him, and leant against it. I rose from my seat and approached him, for he looked quite unwell.

'Erik! What is wrong with -' I gave a gasp as I noticed. 'You're bleeding!' His right shoulder was soaked in red, and the fabric of his cloak was torn above the wound. There was the distinct odour of singed flesh that hung about him, and he looked ready to faint. 'What happened to you?' I asked him in horror, for I imagined this had nothing to do with his condition.

'I was shot,' he said, in a curiously matter-of-fact manner. _Shot_? Where was the bullet? I peered closer at his shoulder, but could see no hole a bullet could be lodged in.

'It merely grazed me,' Erik explained. 'People tend to shoot rather badly in the dark.'

He would not tell me where he had been shot, nor by who. Instead, he insisted on dressing the wound himself, and sent me off to bed, my mind burning with unanswered questions.

* * *

I despaired to find that he appeared to have no intention of taking me back, and to be shown instead, silent and pale, into the Louis-Philippe bedroom that I had previously occupied.

'You are tired, Christine, and you must sleep; I shall be in the drawing room,' he informed me. 'I shall not make a sound.'

'Oh...thank you, Erik,' I replied, feeling quite wretched indeed. When he left me, I collapsed onto the old bed in a shivering heap, and wept until sleep claimed me. Would he ever let me go now? I imagined Raoul must be quite beside himself by now, worrying about me as he usually did. I only hoped he did not despise me for taking a day away from our month together...

But he had said, had he not, that he was going to renounce his participation in the polar expedition - this complicated everything, and if he stayed he would be in terrible danger, for I knew he would never leave me alone.

_Oh, papa_, I thought, _you always found a way to get through bad situations. Even when we were poor and travelled from place to place before we met the Valeriuses, you always managed to find something for me to eat and a comfortable place for me to sleep._

My slumber was troubled now; the deathly silence of the house disturbed me more effectively than any raucous noise could. Erik had kept his word when he had told me he would be quiet - not a single sound could be heard from the drawing room. It was chilling, for all the little sounds one would expect a man to make - feet shuffling on the carpet, or small sighs, even _breathing_ - I could not hear. This house was as silent as any tomb, and the corpse that lived within it did nothing to disturb that stillness. I shuddered and turned over, the rustling of the bedsheets seeming fearsomely loud in comparison to the quietness. A worrying thought came to me: what if something had happened to him? Even for a stealthily-moving person, this silence could not be normal. What if he had collapsed and died, and I knew nothing about it?

I got up shakily, and crossed the bedroom. When I opened the door, I found the drawing room beyond to be completely empty and dark. Frowning, I noticed that only the candles and oil lamps in Erik's bedroom were lit; inquisitive, I approached his doorway and looked in.

Erik was perched on the bench of the organ, slumped forwards. At first I wondered whether he was unconscious or dead, but then I saw his left arm vigorously twitching. As I hesitantly drew nearer, I noticed the ghastly leather-bound score in front of him, and saw that he was feverishly scribbling at it, pausing only to plunge the tip of his pen into the bottle of red ink. Left-handed, I remarked as he forcefully splattered the notes onto the waiting bars with an almost visceral concentration. How was he composing the vicious score without even playing it while he wrote? It seemed as if he did not need to; the orchestra was already raging away inside his broken mind. I watched, stunned...I could almost hear the screeching strings and deep, booming brasses playing their mad symphony within his head as he scribbled feverishly. He seemed at first unstoppable, but by and by his ink bottle ran dry, and the soft scratching of his pen nib was replaced by the irritated tinkling of it against the bottom of the empty glass bottle. A small sigh passed from between his dead lips - the first sound I had heard him make so far. I expected him now to rise from his chair to retrive a fresh bottle of ink, and to remark my presence...but he did not. Instead, he drew out a needle - no, a _syringe_ - and placed it on top of the score, where the red notes still glistened. Then he rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, and turned the inside of his pointed elbow upwards, revealing the delicate white flesh of its underside. I remarked with shock that there was a small purplish wound already - several small wounds, in fact - upon the inside of his elbow, very much like puncture wounds. Next, he took a strip of cloth and tied it tightly, using his teeth and his right hand, just above the elbow. To my horror, he then took up the syringe and with utter detached dispassion, sank it straight into the blue vein that had risen to the surface. My mouth was open and my eyes were wide, but all I could do was watch as he carefully drew out a rather fearsome amount of blood, filling the glass syringe with scarlet. As he pulled the needle from his arm, I could not prevent a gasp from escaping me.

Erik's head turned sharply, but he said nothing when he saw me. In fact, he turned away again, calmly unbinding the cloth from around his arm and indifferently dabbing at the thick red blood beginning to ooze from his elbow. As he did not speak, I did.

'Erik...what...?' I could not even finish my phrase.

'Do not worry yourself, my child, I am merely refilling my ink bottle,' he replied, emptying the contents of the large syringe into the waiting bottle.

'You write in...?' I was unable to bring myself to say it.

'My blood, yes,' he replied calmly, extracting a phial of odd fluid and pouring some of it into the "ink". 'I have a chemical in my possession that prevents it from clotting, which helps it last quite a lot longer...'

'But _why_?' I asked, horrified he could do something as perverse as writing in his own blood. Was he really that insane?

'For _several_reasons,' he told me, sounding quite bored, as if I was a mere child pestering him to explain something obvious. 'Firstly, my blood is quite thick of late, as the evening of my life approaches (haha, is that not poetic?) - and blood-letting helps to decrease the amount of it in my veins, thus quickening its flow. I don't particularly wish to throw out the excess blood when it has use to me as a writing material...'

I frowned at him. 'But is that not a rather medieval concept?' I asked him, trying to make him see sense. 'I was under the impression that your medicinal _connaissances_ were more modern -'

'What is old is not necessarily bad,' he replied casually. 'And besides, I am a unique case. But I digress now...the second reason I wished to tell you, was that...well...how can I explain this...' He ran a long finger against his lower lip musingly. 'You see, Christine, when I was a child, there was nothing I despised more than writing. I simply could not get the hang of putting words onto paper...which is only natural, as a voice like mine I found virtually impossible to translate into writing. How does one put sublime sounds and subtle hypnotic nuances onto a piece of paper? It simply does not work. It was trying for me; for other children, with normal voices, it was easy, for one read it as one heard it - but the case was different for me. Of course, my mother took this as insolence and a stubborn refusal to learn, and beat me frequently because of it. I believe there is a slight depression on my left cheekbone from being knocked about so often...' He gave a chuckle, but I really could not fathom what he found so funny or endearing about his mother's cruelty. 'The same also went for my music, but less intensely; I reverted to creating customised symbols of my own. But then I discovered, quite later on in life, that when something is written in my own blood - in something that is a part of me - it seems to me to have more _meaning_. It is amazing how much attention a man will give a letter written in a sinister red fluid; it seems that the lack of hypnotic sound a voice can bring is compensated for through the hypnotic effect of the glistening scarlet...' His logic was twisted but, amazingly, quite right. 'And the final reason is that Jacquard et Molineau's _papeterie_ has closed down, meaning if I ever wanted usual ink I would need to travel the distance of a few more streets to find another supplier...and I also find the ruby glitter of my own "ink" quite pleasing.' Believing me to be well satisfied with this lengthy response, he turned back to his score, and began to write once more.

I simply stood and stared. When several minutes had passed, Erik paused in his writing.

'I would suggest you rest now,' he put forth without turning to face me. 'It is not good for a young woman to tire herself by staying up so late.'

My cheeks burning from this dismissal, I turned about and left him, knowing that I would never fathom him.

* * *

His odd humours had not gone the following morning. After I had washed my face in the rather charming little bathroom and reluctantly joined his company, I noticed that his determination to please had not abated in the slightest. Today I was treated with the most superb of illusions that he created right there in the drawing room...he revealed to me his extensive prowess as a magician, filling me with childlike wonder in spite of myself. He explained to me where he had learned or developed each of these tricks, describing far-off countries where he had been famous - and, indeed, in some cases the royal favourite at court. One of these tricks, he also performed on me.

'Close your eyes,' he ordered me gently. When I looked worried, he reassured me: 'Have no fear - I am simply going to show you a trick I have perfected over the years, that is quite fascinating.'

Hesitantly, I obeyed him. I felt this was a curiously submissive action, standing with my eyes shut and in total trust of him. Erik for one seemed to find this submission quite pleasing, for when I heard his sweet voice in my ear, I could plainly visualise his smile and the intense glow of his eyes. What he whispered in my ear I could not distinguish; all I could sense was his warm breath tickling my hair and the oddest feeling of total relaxation pass over me.

I was woken from this state what seemed like a split second later, when the sharp sound of his hands clapping once made me open my eyes. I gasped in shock, disorientated by my surroundings. I was standing not on the floor of the drawing room, but _on top of the organ bench_. My knees threatened to give way with shock, but Erik's bony hand gallantly took mine and helped me down. How had I gotten here? I had absolutely no recollection of leaving the drawing room and stepping onto the organ bench - let alone taking one single step. Erik's faintly delirious smile made me slightly fearful.

'How did I come here? I just closed my eyes and -'

'...and walked here all by yourself,' he finished with a smug look. 'Hypnotism was a subject that greatly enthralled me, in my travelling days, you see. All I had to do was instruct you, and you obeyed me without question - though I daresay you recall none of it, as you were under the trance. It is a delightful trick, don't you think?'

Something rather unsettling had just caught my attention; my left cheek was slightly damp...as if I had been kissed, quickly and furtively. I raised a hand to the cooler flesh and looked at him distrustfully.

'What else did you do, Erik?' I demanded. 'You kissed me, didn't you?'

I expected him to become humble, to avert his eyes in shame - but no, he laughed! He gave the most self-proud chuckle I could expect him to give in such a situation. 'It is a grand trick, is it not?' he sighed merrily. 'Oh, come now, Christine, do not glare at poor Erik with such outrage - I have shown you many illusions now, and it seems only fair that I may reap a reward. Kings and queens have showered me with gold and jewels for but one of these tricks I have performed, but I surmised that a simple kiss would be a far more desirable _recompense_. I felt that you would feel better if I claimed my reward while you were unaware of it...'

He was right in his general notion, but he could not imagine how sinister this trick was to me; to think that with one solitary word, he could render me senseless and obedient, an automaton that wordlessly obeyed to every one of his wishes. He could ravage me without giving me a chance to fight him off, and later deny his actions by claiming I was either dreaming or did everything completely willingly.

'I have another, far more beautiful trick that I know you would adore, as it is quite pretty to look at,' Erik was saying, 'but I am afraid the mirrors needed for it are used in a different room, which I keep locked. Never mind, though, you have seen enough illusions for the moment. Now we shall pass onto something equally entertaining that I wish to show you...'

* * *

I stared at the glass. It was perfectly normal, made for holding wine, judging by its slim stem and swelling cup. I briefly wondered where the Phantom bought his glassware, then decided that there are some mysteries of the universe nobody could answer.

Erik held the glass delicately between his slender fingers, then passed it to me. 'You see that it is a real glass, do you not?' he asked. 'Good. Now put it on that tabletop - no the other one, further away, I would not want you to get hurt...there.' I backed away from the glass quickly, wondering fearfully how it could hurt me.

'Now,' said Erik, coming beside me and putting his hands on my shoulders. 'You have most certainly heard tell of singers who can use their voices to shatter glass, _n'est-ce pas_?' I nodded in agreement. He continued reminiscently: 'Well, that was a feat I managed to accomplish when aged six. It was rather amusing, once I had perfected it, to give a cry at such a pitch that my mother's extensive collection of wineglasses would smash, all at once, with a beautiful crash! Whenever she tried to force on me some awful medicine, I would simply scream and crack the bottle in her hand. I have quite some scars, I tell you, from both the glass I broke when I wasn't far away enough and from my mother's rages, haha. But soon, this was not enough for me...I began to find ways to do it without being caught.' He bent his head down, closer to my own. 'You have heard of opera singers breaking glass with their voices - but have you heard of _ventriloquists_ breaking glass in that fashion, I wonder? Observe - it is quite a sight.' He took my hand and pressed it to his throat, and I felt the thrum of powerful vocal cords there. 'Now, watch my lips...you see, they are closed and unmoving, yet my voice is as clear and articulate as with them parted. Very well - my voice is going to leave my mouth. Whoosh! There! Can you hear were it is now? Tell me.'

'It...it's in the glass, isn't it?' I ventured.

'Very good! See, I am speaking to you from the glass, not from Erik's voicebox,' said his stray voice. 'My voice is sitting right here in the bowl of the glass...ah, for some wine to wallow in! Never mind, this will be quite entertaining as it is. Listen...my voice is growing bigger - you hear, it is getting louder and more intense...can you feel it?'

I could indeed; the vibrations in his throat were humming so strongly my fingers were feeling slightly numb. The voice in the wine glass began to sing, with a sweet, melodic voice that grew and grew. Then, it reached a note and threw it, powerfully -

With a high tinkle, the glass shattered outwards in large pieces that dropped onto the tabletop, as if the voice inside it had grown so big it had burst the cup. I stared in awe at this, never having witnessed it before. Erik grinned at me darkly. 'What a marvel, eh, my dear?' he asked.

'Yes, indeed,' I replied, finding myself rather unsettled. This show of his powers had inspired fear in me more than admiration, and I was very anxious indeed to leave this place.

* * *

When I did leave his lair, however, it was in a circumstance that I had never, ever hoped to happen. I had never envisioned such a departure...however, I had foreseen that at least once in my life Erik's actions would be so terrible that he would succumb to my wishes merely to try and make up for what he had done.

I had just left the Louis-Philippe bedroom after shutting myself in there to get away from Erik, whose music-scribbling had grown ever more feverish over the passing hours. Nearly two days I had been here, already, and his apathy had rapidly given way to a sense of barely-hidden inner frustration. His culminating violent feelings had, up until that time, been spilled onto the score of his opera, but this was not enough, for he craved my company.

I came upon Erik in the drawing room, his back turned to me, staring blankly at his bookshelf. His hands were clasped behind his back, but not nonchalantly - he had clasped on wrist in a vice-like grip, the skin bloodless under the pressure. It seemed as if he was restraining himself, or simply quite nervous. When I entered the room he turned and fixed me with a burning gaze. I resisted the urge to back away from those mad eyes, knowing that there was more chance of him retaining what little calm he had if I stood my ground. He advanced, unblinking, staring at me with odd intensity.

'I see you have risen again,' he commented, also unsmiling.

'I remained here to watch your health, and I deemed it irresponsible to simply leave you by yourself,' I replied quietly. Erik's horrible face tightened.

'I am not a sickly infant - I have dealt with this my entire life,' he snapped. Then, he erased all traces of anger from his countenance, even though he could not hide the tenseness of his shoulders. 'But let us not argue...close you eyes, my dear, and I will take you to a wonderful place.'

The mad intensity of his eyes did not reassure me in the slightest way. 'No...I wish to stay here, thank you,' I told him warily.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, and he narrowed his eyes with a sinister smile. 'She refuses, eh?' he murmured to nobody in particular. 'But my dear, treacherous Christine...you mustn't fear...I simply find you quite becoming, with your eyes closed so obediently...' Shivers of fear tingled along my spine. I knew that if I let him put me into that ghastly trance, he would surely take much more from me than a simple kiss.

He had drawn nearer, and I took a step back, wary. 'What is it, Christine? Why do you find my admiration so repulsive?' he asked softly, eyes never leaving my face. 'I daresay if _he_complimented you thus, you would smile and blush modestly...but when I do so, you merely turn pale and look frightened. Is it so wrong for me to find my only love pretty?' He leant close to me, putting his awful, noseless face near to mine. I found my eyes drawn magnetically towards that gaping hole, my stomach turning at the sight of the naked, exposed cartilage and the moist darkness of what could only be the back of his throat. My gaze flickered back to his own blazing gold eyes, which were smouldering with a fearsome emotion that I most certainly did not want to attempt to define. His spidery hands were on my shoulders, gripping tighter and tighter. 'Do not forget, Christine my dear, my love; I am a man, every bit as much as your precious young vicomte. I, too, possess _des désirs charnels_...and you have been stirring them so unwittingly, with your lovely smiles and innocent, admiring presence!'

I suddenly did not want to be here; he could not make himself plainer, with his talk of carnal desires...

'I...I must be away for a moment,' I stammered, anxious for an excuse. 'I left something in the Louis-Philippe bedroom...'

I should not have mentioned it, for his eyes blazed once more. 'To the bedroom, my dear?' he repeated, madly. 'Then I shall accompany you - we will go together!'

'No!' I cried, helplessly trying to loosen his grip. 'You must stay here - you must stay right here in the drawing room.' I was beginning to sound just as insane as he was; the truth was, I even _felt_ insane, at the mere thought of what Erik was mentioning.

'So that you may lock yourself up and leave Erik all alone with his painful, raging blood? I know you too well, my little Delilah...you shall stay here with me!'

'No - let go of me! _Arrête, Erik, je t'en supplie!_' I begged, but he _would_ not stop.

'Don't struggle so!'

'Let me go!'

'Stay still!'

'_Lâche-moi, lâche-moi!_'

'_Jamais! Je te garderais avec moi pour l'éternité - arrête de t'agiter, ca ne sert a rien, tu m'entends? Rien!_' he cried. 'Never! I shall keep you with me for all eternity - stop struggling, it serves as nothing, do you hear me? Nothing!'

I sobbed in terror as he held me close to him. How could such a frail body possess such inhuman strength? What chance did I have? My fighting only aggravated him further, and his arms crushing me to his body were impossible to move. I cried and entreated, but he was now in a frenzy of madness and lust - his frustrations and rage following my betrayal had culminated to a peak, and were now breaking from him. I could feel his lips sliding against my cheek and down my neck, like a wild animal toying with its hapless prey before the kill. His long fingers tangled in my hair, viciously pulling my head back to expose my throat. I whimpered as his hot mouth was pressed against it, and I heard him growl: 'Ah, here it is, the pretty little voice...Erik made this voice come alive again, so it must rightfully belong to Erik...mmm,_ indeed_...' I trembled helplessly as he kissed the throat containing the voice that was "his", and I felt a strange warmth in my limbs, making them suddenly feel too light. I could not possibly be responding to this...was I fainting? No, I must not faint! If I fainted, I would not be able to defend myself...but I could not even defend myself while fully conscious at the moment...

He had, with fierce passion, twined himself around me, bony, unyielding body drawn close to mine, his thick black locks brushing my jaw as he kissed the side of my neck. The absence of his nose made his face come even closer to my skin, and I trembled uncontrollably with disgust and fear. This was not like him at all - what had happened to the gentle, courteous Erik who had carefully stopped himself from even touching my hand in case the chill of his flesh scared me? His sanity had snapped, and his great mind was taken over by the wills of his own cadaverous body - the cadaverous body with the desires of a man.

I shrieked when I felt the awful evidence of that desire against my lower stomach. My cry resulted in his sharp teeth biting me sharply as a reprimand. 'Why do you scream so, my beloved?' he questioned harshly. 'You see now, don't you, that Erik is a man just like any other, really!' As if this was not enough, he pressed his narrow hips more firmly against me, to prove to me his ghastly virility. I struggled in terror, senses reeling out of control. I had always thought, whenever I had envisioned this kind of attack, that a swift upward jerk of the knee would incapacitate my aggressor long enough for me to make a hasty retreat, but though Erik's legs were apart, he was far too tall for this form of defence to have any effect. I thrashed in his arms, wishing that his heart would give up on him once more, right at this moment. However, my wishes were in vain, for it seemed the blood he had emptied from himself had lowered the pressure on his heart, and he was not going to release me. My arms were pinioned to my sides as he gently pushed down the shoulder of my gown, greedily pressing his deathly lips to the exposed skin, taking extreme pleasure in the knowledge that he was the first to do so. I cried harder, wishing for an escape as his mouth moved to my collarbone. Further struggling incited him to tear with vicious passion at my shoulder with his teeth, his sharp bites drawing blood as his fingers tightened lustfully on the fabric of my dress. When his hand began to slide my skirts upward, lips nearing my face this time, I grew wild. Succeeding in wrenching my arm out of his grasp, I brought my hand up and hit him across the face with as much strength as I could muster. His head jerked sideways, and my skirts fell back into place from his slack hand. To my surprise, there was a long cut now across his cheek, which was beginning to fill with blood. I stood frozen, then slowly looked at my hand. The ring that I wore - the ring Erik had given me - had sliced his skin with the force of my blow. I looked up, and realised Erik was also looking at the ring. He had said, hadn't he, that with this ring on no harm would come to me...but he had betrayed me by what he had very nearly done.

Abruptly I remembered that I, too, had betrayed him. _So, now we are even..._

My eyes went back to his face. I did not run from him, although I had the perfect chance to escape. There was no need; the fire in his eyes had been doused by the sober coldness of sanity. It seemed he had regained some form of his sane mind back, for when he looked at me, his gaze was full of nothing but horror and shame. In spite of myself, I felt a slight pang of guilt at the sight of the red streak and rapidly colouring bruise that gave garish pigment to his otherwise pale face. For a few seconds, we watched each other - my clothing awry, his hair rumpled - silently horrified at the realisation of our own separate betrayals, and what the consequences of them had nearly been. We would have destroyed each other completely through this...but now the danger was averted while we still held our sanity.

Still full of horrified shock, Erik's mouth opened and his lips trembled. 'Come with me,' he murmured softly, sounding deeply disturbed. I knew from the look on his wretched face that he would not attempt anything, and I followed him without question, clutching my arms about myself. My neck and shoulders stung, and I could feel livid bruises appearing where he had held me too tightly, and also where he had so savagely bitten me.

He led me out of his front door, and gently helped me into the rowboat that was tied on the bank of the dark lake. I took his hand unflinchingly, as both of us were still under shock. Dreamlike, he untied the rope from its mooring-post, and got into the boat, opposite me. When he took up the oars and began to shakily row, I let the tears flow. I would never have believed him capable of such a thing...he, who had been my protector for so long! Or was it truly his fault? Was he not driven to it by his madness and frustrations, fuelled by my brazen liason with Raoul? My body shook with my silent sobs, barely audible over the rushing of the water against the oars. My weeping had a curious echo to it...I looked up and noticed that Erik, too, was crying, his heavy tears spilling down his mangled face, making it glisten in the light of the solitary lantern. His tears were tears of shame and sadness, just like mine. Both of us sat silent in the boat, each crying just as bitterly as the other. When the boat knocked against the other bank, Erik let me out, then fell to his knees before me.

'Christine, oh, Christine!' he moaned. 'I am a monster - a beast with no sense of honour or respect! All is lost now...I beg you to forgive me, Christine! I know I have frightened you, because I have frightened myself, too. Oh, my lovely child...oh, Christine!' His words were swallowed by his heavy sobs. All I could do was watch and weep as he shuffled on his knees to the boat, splashing in the icy water but not caring one bit as he retrieved the lantern. 'Here - take my lantern, so that you may see your way. I deserve to be the one left in darkness...leave me, Christine, and find it in your heart to forgive your poor Erik, who still loves you dearly!'

I accepted the lantern, still shivering, and as I walked away from him with streaming eyes, I heard the inhuman cry of pure grief and sorrow echo about the underground halls, followed by a volley of sobs...and then silence.

* * *

'Christine!'

Raoul met me in my dressing room the very next day, after having received word from me. He looked quite agitated and unhappy, and fixed me with a stern gaze that reminded me of his elder brother Philippe.

'Where on earth were you?' he demanded. 'How could you take two days of our happiness away like that? You were with _him_, weren't you?' A shiver passed through me and fresh tears dropped from my eyes. Raoul's indignant look vanished. 'Christine?' he asked gently, full of concern. 'What is it? You are awfully pale, look at you!'

'Oh, Raoul!' I sobbed, and flung my arms about his neck, pressing my face to the fabric of his fine coat. He held me reassuringly, then stiffened.

'Christine - what is this? _Mais qu'est-ce que c'est?_' he asked worriedly, and pushed the shawl away from my neck and shoulders, exposing the mark on my skin he had glimpsed. His eyes widened in horror at the dull blemishes and the distinct shapes of teeth-marks around my shoulder and throat.

'Raoul, he...he tried to...' My words turned to uncontrollable weeping, and he held me comfortingly. When he let me go, I could see the paleness of his face and the pure rage in his usually calm blue eyes.

'I shall kill him!' he declared vengefully, teeth gritted angrily. 'This Erik shall pay for his actions! I have shot at him once, and by God I will shoot at him a second time - and this time I will not miss!'

My eyes widened with shock. 'You shot at him?' I repeated, remembering when Erik staggered into his lair bleeding from a wound.

'Yes, I did,' affirmed Raoul. 'I have heard that one can see his ghastly yellow eyes in darkness...and I saw them one night, outside my window, staring at me as I lay in bed! I drew my pistol, but the darkness spoiled my aim. Philippe thought by the sound of the gunshot that I had ended myself through suffering.'

'Oh, Raoul...'

'Now I shall seek Erik out and kill him for what he has dared to do!' Raoul vowed, but I touched his face with my hand to soften his frown.

'No, Raoul, you mustn't,' I told him, and before he could open his mouth to voice his outrage, I continued: 'He was not in his right mind - he was driven insane with jealousy, through my fault.'

Raoul looked absolutely appalled. 'How can you make excuses for him, after what he did to you?' he exclaimed in horror. 'He is nothing but a fiend!'

'Please, Raoul, no more bloodshed,' I begged him gently. 'You do not know what he is like. He has killed many men before - he told me this himself - and I would not want you to be harmed. You would not stand a chance against him...and I could not bear any more violence.'

_And besides_, I thought, _there is no need to kill him...he is dying slowly anyway, with every day that passes_...

Oh, Erik. Oh, Raoul. When will there be salvation from this misery?


	15. Chapter 14: Into the Trap

_**A/N:**__** HOORAAAAAAAY!! My Internet is back! Woo! I am so, so, SO sorry for the long wait and the nail-biting uncertainty about whether or not this fic would actually get finished. But now I'm back, and I've been writing quite a bit...**_

**Anyway**_**...thank you sooo very much to MadLizzy (Sorry about unpleasant images...I suppose I got caught up as I was writing rather late at night, when most inspiration comes. "...ended myself through suffering"...I meant that Philippe had thought that Raoul was pining over Christine so much he had shot himself - I'll go and change that around a bit so it makes more sense! Ooh, I can't stand rape-to-love scenes either, and I've read so many. And I simply had to add the "Whoosh!" ventriloquism of Leroux Erik! :D), Madhatter45 (Aww, that's so kind! I think I may have a bit of re-reading to do, as I've forgotten what the start of this fic is like...oops.) and Chantal (Either Kay or Leroux's Christine says that she thinks Erik writes in his own blood, and I found it interesting to come up with some reasons! And sometimes Erik just needs a slap around the face.), bwayphantomrose (:D Thankies!), Becky Belle (Leroux would probably sue me, hee-hee. I'm starting to feel a bit guilty for giving all the characters a fair bit of bashing around - which is why I'll make sure Christine and the...surviving...others are happy (for once) at the end. Sorry for not updating soon...stupid internet.) and kristinalinda (I thought "Well, he's a frustrated guy living alone for who knows how many years, so why not?". And there definitely is going to be that scene...;D) for the loverly reviews!**_

_**This chapter is nice and long...and we will be saying fare-ye-well to a certain member of the de Chagny family, I'm afraid...:'(**_

* * *

My mind was in a state of unrest that night, and when sleep finally graced me, it brought with it the strangest dream I had ever had. Doubtlessly it was brought on from the events of the previous days, and from the turmoil in my mind and heart...but it was unexpectedly not a nightmare.

I dreamt of Erik again - not the quiet, troubled Erik I usually knew, but the sinister Erik with blazing, hungry eyes. I was in his possessive embrace once more, just as I had been the last time I was down in his lair. He had me wrapped in his arms, and we were in a dark, sequestered place where nobody could ever go. Strangely enough, I was unafraid; in fact, I was fully consenting to what the dark, golden-eyed shadow was doing to me. I took pleasure in the vicious bites that had before made me scream, delighting in the skeletal embrace I had so abhorred. His cold hands stroking my skin elicited rapture instead of revulsion, and his ravenous kisses were returned by my own lips. As I remained thus entwined, relishing the touch of the one I had never properly considered as a man until recently, on the edge of hearing I heard a cry: '_Christine!_'. Raoul's voice swam through the darkness, reminding me of the portion of my heart he, too, claimed, of his own love that I could not forget. When the lips of Death descended towards my own beneath those eyes of burning gold, the dream ended abruptly, making me sit up, shivering. What had come across my fevered mind, to make me dream such an odd dream? I had expected to toss and turn all night under the icy hold of nightmares - not to simply dream about being in the arms of the one I had every reason to hate and fear.

With a sigh, I lay back down; it was still late, and tomorrow I would be meeting with Raoul again...

* * *

He was waiting for me in my dressing room, his blond hair hastily combed and collar slightly askew. I righted this for him before clasping his hands in both of mine.

'Oh, Raoul, forgive me for having left you worried...I had not expected to be taken away...'

His blue eyes looked anxiously into the depths of mine. 'I forgive you Christine, but please - you must tell me everything about Erik,' he told me. 'I cannot bear to be left in the dark any longer. You must explain to me everything.'

I hesitated, then sighed. He had every right to know of this; he was my friend, as well as my almost-fiancé. I looked about. 'I will tell you, then, Raoul - but not here,' I replied, grasping his hand firmly. 'Come with me.'

As I led him through the corridors, I listened out for any sign of the Opera Ghost's presence. I could not reveal the secret of Erik where the latter would be sure to hear me; no, we needed to go where there were no walls for him to hide behind, and no corridors to carry my voice. I pulled Raoul up countless floors, turning here and there, making sharp bends to lose any pursuer that might be behind us. Whenever I felt the prickling sensation of being followed, I would suddenly break into a run, perplexing my poor friend as he hastened to keep up with me. We climbed stairs, ladders and planks, until finally we reached a door that led out onto the very top of the building - the roof. I walked out into the cool air, relieved to be free of the oppressive, close feeling of the Phantom's ethereal omnipresence inside the Opera house. Raoul followed me, a frown puckering his fair brow.

'Why must we be so high up?' he asked me.

'Because this is not his domain any more - Erik only haunts the darkness of the Opera house,' I replied, then felt myself relax marvellously at the beautiful sight all around us. The sun was setting in the sky over Paris, turning the horizon blood-red and glorious orange while the clouds were tinged with a lovely pinkish hue. The other rooftops below reflected the light, and down in the streets I could plainly see the people going about their evening business. I took Raoul's hand and we walked together across the roof, a sweet-smelling night breeze wafting through our hair while we took shelter at the base of the huge statue of Apollo, who held his majestic lyre in golden hands as he looked out across Paris. Raoul gathered me to him.

'Tell me now, Christine,' he requested. 'Tell me about Erik.'

And so I obliged him. I explained to him of the first time I had heard his voice, under the guise of the Angel of Music, of the first time he had taken me to his lair, and everything else from our encounter at the Bois to the mishap that had happened only recently. Raoul listened attentively, at times looking horrified at my descriptions of Erik's face, and at others looking angry at his actions.

'He is everywhere, Raoul, and I shall never be free of him,' I told him hopelessly in conclusion. 'I cannot forget his ghastly eyes - nor his horrible, horrible face!'

'_...oh...!..._' a distant, low groan of suffering threaded into the air, and I froze in Raoul's arms. He looked about.

'Don't be afraid, Christine, it's probably just somebody down in the streets,' he reassured me confidently. I sighed, wishing I could believe him.

'Oh, Raoul, even his wails follow me everywhere,' I said. 'His awful moans of pain tear so badly at my heart...he will never leave me alone!'

'You must truly despise him then,' Raoul remarked. I frowned.

'No, I don't,' I replied truthfully.

Raoul appeared quite surprised - and, indeed, confused - at this. 'If he does not inspire hatred in you, then tell me what other emotion it is!' he said, sounding quite wretched.

I opened my mouth, but could not say. 'I...I don't know,' I told him. 'He fills me with horror, yes, and he scares me awfully - but he inspires compassion and pity, too...'

'Do you love him?' The question came quietly, unexpectedly, and almost caught me off my guard. I only sighed again, looking away into the slowly gathering shadows.

'Raoul, don't ask me what I cannot answer,' I replied softly.

'So you _do_, then!'

'Please, desist - I want to be free of everything here! I...' My eyes found his, gazing into those blue depths. 'I want to run away.'

I saw the pain vanish from his face, replaced by a bright energy. 'Run away? Are you certain? You would really run away with me?' he asked breathlessly. 'That is a grand idea - how had we not thought of it before? But how am I to know you will not disappear with your Erik again? How am I to be certain your mind will not be changed?'

I tightened my arms about his chest. 'You shall drag me away by force if need be, but we will still run away!'

'When? Let us away tonight - the sooner we leave this hell, the better -'

'No,' I stilled his eager lips with my finger. 'Tomorrow night. I...I cannot leave tonight. I feel that I should at least perform Faust again tomorrow, just for...one last time. As a goodbye.'

'You are already having second thoughts!' Raoul accused.

'Of course not - tomorrow night, you can fling me over your shoulder and bodily carry me from the building if it comes to that, but we _will_ leave together,' I promised. 'I just feel it is not right to leave my previous guide and protector without any form of farewell.'

The young vicomte's eyebrows knitted again. 'You truly do love him, don't you,' he said quietly. 'The deep sort of love that some people experience only once in their lifetime. Oh, Christine...if Erik were as handsome as his voice, you would have long scorned my love by now. And yet, even though he is hideous, my love still has competition - do you really love me, Christine? Or will Erik always have the upper hand for your heart?'

'My dearest Raoul, how can you doubt that I love you?' I said, now finding his blue eyes somewhat hard to distinguish in the gathered darkness and heavy blanket of clouds. 'If I did not love you, I would not give you my lips, as so!'

At that, I took my poor, stunned betrothed's flaxen-haired head in my hands, and pressed my lips to his for the first time in both our lives. Raoul's bewilderment rapidly evaporated in the face of his joy, as he wrapped his arms closer around me and returned the kiss just as sweetly. All the memories of our childhood love came back to me; none of those shy kisses on the cheek could ever compare to this heartfelt kiss we shared now!

As Raoul tenderly tilted my chin for another, the pained sighs and moans of the night culminated into a single, raucous howl that echoed hauntingly across the rooftops of Paris. That tortured scream made both of us jump, clutching at each other, as a crash of thunder joined it, the clouds above lighting up briefly, announcing the arrival of a storm. Hurriedly Raoul gathered me under his arm, and we quickly made our way for the door. But just before we left the rooftop, I turned back -

'_Raoul!_' I breathed in terror.

He turned, and froze when he saw what I saw. From between the strings of Apollo's lyre, a pair of fiery yellow pinpoints shone wildly. My heart nearly stopped at that sight; how could he have followed us all the way up? I had thought he would be working on his dreadful opera, as he had been throughout the two days I had been with him - but no. There was the evidence, and there was what made me quickly grab at Raoul's arm and run as fast as I could away from the rooftop and those tortured golden eyes.

* * *

On our way down, we met a dark figure who blocked our path. At first my heart leapt with fear in my chest, but then I noticed that the figure's eyes were not golden, nor was he very tall.

'Do not take this way!' he cried urgently. 'Go down that corridor there!' I recognised the voice, and breathed a quick thank-you before dragging Raoul along the safer corridor we had been shown.

'Who was that?' yelped Raoul, trying to make me stop.

'The Persian,' I replied, still tugging him along. 'I have seen him a few times around the Opéra - he is our ally, I am sure of it.'

Raoul began to slow his pace, even though I still hurried on. 'I don't like this, Christine,' he complained, sounding upset. 'We should not be running away from Erik - I could have flung him from the roof by now, if we had not run away in such a cowardly manner. Our troubles would have been -'

'No, Raoul...you saw how high up he was,' I replied. 'Even if you had somehow managed to catch hold of him - you do not know how horribly strong he is. _You_ would have been the one thrown from the roof.'

Raoul gave no answer, but fortunately followed me. Dread was still pounding in my veins; Erik was mad already, and full of grief too...from the sound of that howl, I could easily guess that his fractured mind was now filled with intense hatred.

* * *

Raoul and I stood together in my dressing room, safe - at least, for the moment. My ears were still ringing with that unearthly howl of outrage and grief I had heard from the statue of Apollo. Distressed, I cursed my previous presumption that Erik would never venture onto the roof, that he was too busy with his opera...now he had seen with his own beastly yellow eyes the affection between Raoul and I...oh, poor Erik...

'Christine,' Raoul murmured urgently, face full of restless energy as he took my hands, 'we must leave, tonight! He has surely heard our plan - he will take you away again, and this time I will lose you forever, I can feel it!'

'No, don't say that!' I replied, touching his cheek. 'I still owe him one last song - as much as ever. He will not have a chance to take me away, I will make sure of it. I will spend all night with Mama Valerius, and all other times with somebody else. Then I will be safe, onstage with hundreds of people watching. Even Erik would not dare attempt to kidnap me in front of so many people! It would be impossible. And then, after the show, I shall be securely in your arms, and we shall be on our way out of Paris forever!'

My words seemed to speak sense to him, for he relaxed slightly and let me embrace him.

'But Christine, I am still worried,' he mumbled, sounding just like a child again.

'I am, too, but it cannot be helped,' I confessed, out of nervous habit twisting the ring I wore around my finger. Who knew what state Erik must be in, now that -

My face suddenly drained of colour, and I began to tremble uncontrollably.

'Christine! What is it? You have gone so pale...' Raoul asked, concerned. I barely heard him; it felt as if the ground had opened beneath me into a chasm of hell, and I was falling down it no matter what I tried.

'_Misère!_' I cried hysterically in horrified dismay. 'Oh, Erik! Erik! Forgive me!'

Raoul hushed me frantically. 'Are you mad?' he yelped in shock. 'He will surely hear if you call him! Calm yourself - what has happened!'

I gave a dry sob of utter, disbelieving panic. 'The ring!' I wailed. 'I have lost Erik's ring!'

* * *

For hours we searched. The two of us retraced our steps through the empty corridors of the Opéra, even daring to venture out onto the roof - now thankfully devoid of any spectral presence. I even sank to my knees before the statue of Apollo and searched the ground thoroughly, but to no avail. There was no sign anywhere of the glint of a plain gold ring, the ring that had once saved me, and whose absence now doomed me.

'It's not here,' Raoul told me gravely, after having so kindly searched in every nook and cranny. I began to cry hopelessly.

'He will kill me!' I wept. 'He told me himself that something terrible would happen if I lost that ring - that even _he_ did not know what my fate would be if it left my finger! Oh, heavens...he will no longer protect me from his own rage!'

'Don't cry so,' Raoul reassured me, rather vainly, as I could not stop my tears. He held me comfortingly, asking me again to leave with him that very night.

'No...I cannot, Raoul,' I told him again, wiping at my eyes. 'He will have at least one small chance of forgiving me if I say farewell to him.'

'But my dearest, last time that Faust was played when the Phantom was displeased, somebody was actually _killed_!' Raoul reminded me. 'If he had the audacity to drop a chandelier upon an audience, then surely he will be able to do something equally heinous tomorrow night...'

'My mind is made up,' I said. 'You will not be able to convince me otherwise - it is best if you make the preparations tonight, so that we may leave quickly tomorrow.'

Reluctantly, Raoul agreed, and together we left the roof, while my fingers kept seeking out the ring that was no longer there.

* * *

**-**_**Raoul**_**-**

* * *

'Monsieur?'

'Yes, Julie?'

'The comte wishes to see you,' the maid informed him. Judging by her slightly edgy expression, Raoul could guess that Philippe was not in good humour.

'Thank you,' he replied, and then left his room, wondering what his brother wanted to see him for. Passing through the corridors, Raoul finally reached the study, where Philippe was waiting for him, standing with his arms crossed behind his back and looking down at something on the table. When the vicomte entered, his elder brother immediately turned around.

'Ah, Raoul - _te voilà_,' Philippe said in clipped tones. 'Come here.'

Warily, he obliged, and the comte sat on his desk, picking up a copy of _L'Epoque_ which lay open upon it. Raoul picked at his fingernails anxiously while Philippe, with lips tightly pursed, folded the paper open at a particular page.

'I had the servants bring my breakfast up here, and with it the morning paper,' Philippe told Raoul. His casual words carried undertones that suggested big trouble for Raoul, but he kept a brave face as Philippe got to the point of the matter. 'I was surprised to find a rather _interesting_ article - about us.'

Raoul's eyes widened. 'About us?'

The comte's mouth tightened in annoyance. 'Rather, about you, me, and - how did they put it...' - he scanned the article - 'Ah, yes: the "notorious Opera singer, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé".'

His heart leaped at the mention of her name, but there was an icy look in Philippe's eyes that doused all pleasant thoughts. What could this article possibly be about?

'What is in this article?' Raoul ventured, not sure if he wanted to know, seeing as it had made his brother so angry.

'It goes on at length about _your_ engagement with this Mademoiselle Daaé, and how opposed I am to it,' the comte replied. 'It mentions that "Comte Philippe de Chagny is said to have sworn that...la, la, la...such a promise is not to be _kept_", and ends with this: "...we think the Comte is severely mistaken if he imagines that brotherly love will triumph over pure, romantic love"!' Philippe threw the paper down upon his desk sharply. 'What do you have to say to that, Raoul, hmm?'

Raoul could not bring himself to say anything. He should have known how gossip spreads...oh, now that they had brought Philippe into it, he was sure to be even angrier with Raoul than he would have been...

Philippe sighed in irritation. 'Once again you have brought ridicule upon our names!' he growled. 'The people of Paris will be _laughing_ at us now, or morbidly following our personal lives as if we were the characters of a novel. And you - you are not helping one jot! I really cannot say _what_ has come over you of late, Raoul - first you get into a fight, next you start shooting at nothing in the middle of the night, and you pine _incessantly_ about some girl you met at the Opéra...'

Raoul could not bear any more of this. His brother would never, never understand his attachment to Christine; Philippe was the mature brother, whose heart was not tender enough to be pierced by sudden, wild adorations. Raoul sighed.

'Goodbye, Philippe.'

The comte raised an blond eyebrow. 'So you truly are leaving, then? Tonight? Oh, tell me you are not leaving with _her_, Raoul - surely you would not be so foolish...'

Raoul made no answer, which greatly aggravated Philippe. In one quick movement, he rose from his desk to stand in front of his younger brother.

'Raoul, if you _dare_ to run away from all your responsibilities with some gullible young Opera girl whose mind is filled with Phantoms, then I shall find a way to stop you!' Philippe vowed threateningly. Raoul simply stared stonily back. Sibling against sibling...it never used to be so. But everything had changed; all was different now.

'Goodbye, my brother,' Raoul repeated, and left the room without another word.

* * *

**-**_**Christine**_**-**

* * *

On that fateful, fateful evening when I made my entrance upon stage, I was hurt by the hostility of the audience's reaction. It seemed as if every single woman there was whispering to her neighbour following my appearance onstage, no doubt making comments about that awful article published in _L'Epoque_. What right had they to judge us so from mere gossip? They had no idea of the delicate joy between Raoul and I - and I was sure that the Comte Philippe must have been quite beside himself after reading it. Still, in a few hours none of this would matter; in a few hours, Raoul and I would be fleeing Paris forever, and leaving behind its whispering masses and hidden horrors.

Braving the disapproving looks of the audience, I played my part faithfully, gathering courage even as I noticed the Comte Philippe himself in the de Chagnys' habitual box. He did not appear to be fixing me with any particularly hateful regard, however, merely looking engrossed in his own thoughts. Raoul I could not see; perhaps he had not come?

As I began to sing, I felt a strange presentiment, which I merely assumed was nervousness about my impending escape attempt with Raoul. I wondered; could Erik be listening? Could my song be reaching his sharp ears, wherever he was? I felt strangely sad - this would be the very last time in my life that I would sing for him...afterwards I would leave him forever, and never put his teachings to practice again. I tried not to imagine Erik discovering my absence, first becoming enraged and then, when anger turned to sorrow, tripping hopelessly about the Opera house, wailing for me silently in his sweet, tortured voice...I did not want to think of him throwing himself about in his lair where nobody could hear his agony, taking his anger out on innocent Opera-goers and perhaps, finally, ending himself...

The thought of my actions driving Erik to put an end to his days, when for God knew how many years of degradation and suffering he had survived without doing so, made my voice threaten to tremble in my throat. But I could not afford a wobble in my voice - not tonight. Tonight, I would sing not for the mad genius wasting away beneath the Opéra, but for the part of that man that was the Angel of Music.

Throughout the course of the play, my singing soared, just as it had on that first performance, to heights never heard before. I let the music take me away again, allowing only the most divine of sounds to pass my lips as I stood there on the stage. My presentiment was gone; all I knew was that I was safe, in the company of so many people whose disapproval of me was momentarily forgotten by their wonder at my voice. When the opera reached its climax at the end, I looked back again towards the audience, and saw a figure standing. The familiar honest face and blond hair instantly told me this figure was Raoul, attending my last opera, ready to take me away to safety when it was over. Although his features appeared slightly worried - as if he, too, was on edge - I felt undescribably glad to see him. My voice rose again, and I sang:

'_Anges purs! Anges radieux! Portez mon âme au sein des cieux!_'

My entire being ringing with these words, I looked upwards towards the ceiling of the Grande Salle. Carolus Fonta opened his mouth to sing: '_Marguerite!_', when suddenly, without any warning at all -

_Crack_!

Every lamp onstage and throughout the Salle was extinguished, the thick darkness swallowing every glow of light from the huge hall. I barely had time to react, for just as suddenly, the stage buckled beneath me and I plunged down through empty air!

I sincerely believed, in that moment of breathless falling, that my actions of the previous months had been so sinful that speaking Marguerite's entreaty to heaven had led me to be abruptly cast down into Hell. This belief was only made stronger still when I landed not in a pit of fire and brimstone, but in the sinewy arms of a yellow-eyed demon. My already violently hammering heart was beating so quickly that I felt it would stop completely from this sudden, fearsome change of situation. The golden glimmers swivelled away from my face, and I was quickly whisked away, down into the darkness of the underworld...

I must have fainted from pure terror, for later on I woke up in the last place I wanted to find myself - the relatively normal but entirely unwelcome confines of the Louis-Philippe room in Erik's lair. I struggled quickly to my feet, and ran out into the drawing room.

'Erik!' I cried, finding the room empty and moving quickly to the next. 'Erik, where are you? Erik, take me back this instant, I beg you! _Erik!_'

But no matter how much I screamed into the silence, there was no quiet, answering voice, and absolutely no sign of the tall man clad in the fine dinner jacket. I collapsed onto the floor in despair, still in my costume, viciously tearing pins from my hair. Where could he be? How had he ever had the nerve to spirit me away in front of an entire audience? I assumed it was him merely playing to his sordid love for all things dramatic: the chandelier had been dramatic, for one thing, had it not? And my kidnapping must have been an _amusing_ challenge for him...

I remarked the broken objects here and there, and disordered papers. I also noticed several plans and calculations laid out that made me once more curse the fact that Raoul and I had arranged our escape unwittingly in his presence. If we had planned it elsewhere, we surely would have been able to leave together, safely...

But what had happened had happened, and all I could do was sit and wait for Erik to come - if he ever would.

* * *

**-**_**Philippe**_**-**

* * *

_Love_, thought the Comte de Chagny bitterly. _It has sent my poor brother mad_. Only a few hours ago, when Mademoiselle Daaé had disappeared so suddenly from the stage after the brief moment of darkness, he had immediately guessed that Raoul had arranged it to run away with her. Still vowing to prevent this, Philippe had sent his coach haring along the Brussels Road, assuming that was the route his brother and the girl had taken in their own coach. However, he had soon discovered that there was no sign of them on that road, and that they were definitely still at the Opéra. Upon his quick return, he had gone straight to the girl's dressing room, sure to find them there. But alas! the only thing Philippe saw in that room was his younger brother's discarded top hat and, even worse, an empty pistol-case.

Any fool could guess what had happened; Philippe had remembered Raoul telling him on that strange night where he had fired at "two eyes" outside his window, about a rival - a man who lived in the vaults of the theatre, whom he despised with all his heart. It was apparent that Raoul had gone down to the vaults with a pistol to actually kill his rival. Kill! _Raoul_, his shy, boyish younger brother, wanting to _kill_ another man! The poor lad was insane...

So, determined to save the young Vicomte from a foolish duel or reckless fight, Philippe had bravely plunged into the underground vaults of the Opéra, grabbing a light to see his way with. It had been a long struggle through a dark, damp maze, and he had cursed every minute that went so fleetingly by. He had already lost so much time; who knew what had happened to Raoul? With his luck, he would be dead, or guilty of murder before Philippe arrived! Despite their recent arguments, the Comte did care for his brother. What would he ever say to his sisters if something happened to young Raoul? They had been so reluctant to let the boy join his brother in Paris - they had spoiled and pampered him when he had lived with them, after the demise of their parents. Charlotte and Adèline would be so terribly devastated if Raoul got into trouble like this...

It had been quite a stroke of good luck, finding this row-boat on the bank of the great, black lake he had come across. Philippe had not hesitated to jump in and rapidly row the wooden vessel as quickly as he could out across the water. Even though his arms began to tire and sweat broke out upon his brow, the Comte rowed on with all speed, following the widening of the lake. Upon his journey across it, though, he fancied he had heard, when he had first put the boat out onto the water, the faraway sound of a distant, electric bell. He knew, though, that there were many workers who came around the vaults now and then, and assumed it had something to do with them. Resolutely he kept pulling at the oars, remembering his youthful days of sailing near the de Chagny house in Bretagne...

As Philippe in the solitary rowboat glided on over the still, dark waters, a tiny glimmer caught his eye. At first he paid it no heed, but then, a strange, hauntingly beautiful melody, muffled but perfectly harmonious, sounded out around him. He stopped rowing, simply to listen more closely to this odd and delightful music. He had never heard a sound like it, and when the splash of the oars ceased, it grew louder and more angelically sweet. Stunned, Philippe picked up his lamp and shone it about. The light reflected from the surface of the water, showing nothing. What was this lovely, seraphic singing? It was almost mesmerizing...

Seizing control of his senses, the Comte remembered his brother. What was he doing? He could not afford to waste time listening to distant music - Raoul surely needed him. As he rowed on, though, another glimmer caught the Comte's eye. He squinted at the still water's surface, disturbed only by the ripples of his rowboat, and espied two small golden coins lying at the very bottom of the lake. It was rather strange that there should be coins here; perhaps it was some charm for good luck, to throw a centime or two into the water? Philippe continued, and then remarked with bemusement that the golden coins appeared to be following him. He rowed a little faster, but they only remained level with him, never falling behind. Perhaps they were caught in some invisible current? The singing began to swell again; this time, it appeared to be issuing from the lake itself. Singing water? Nonsense! Now _he_ was the one going insane...

Nevertheless, the sheer beauty of the melody made him stop rowing once more, and, speculatively, look over the side of the rowboat and onto the black surface of the water. The music was louder than ever, entrancing him - and yet all he could see was his own flaxen-haired, moustached and completely mesmerized reflection. Well, that and the two little coins that _were_ actually moving, now he looked at them properly -

Suddenly a pale, emaciated corpse rose from the water, deathly and terrifying. Philippe started back with a yell, but two strong, white arms seized him, and the creature - the corpse that appeared to be actually alive - uttered an unearthly cry of triumph. Its hands were powerful, with long digits that clenched upon the fabric of his fine coat, and pulled him over the side of the boat and into the water. Philippe kicked reflexively, struggling for the surface, but the corpse-man, with what appeared to be a hollow reed clenched between its teeth, had too firm a grip on him. In the dark waters, the Comte could still see the underside of his rowboat, and the faint halo of lantern-light surrounding it. The awful white cadaverous creature kicked its legs, holding him under the water while he thrashed about, in vain trying to free himself. Philippe was a good swimmer - he had spent many summer days by the seaside, swimming with his friends. But no matter how much he lashed out with arms and legs, his expensive evening wear had filled with water and was dragging him down, and that horrendous creature was so strong! He had never expected to die like this...Not by drowning - and not at this very moment, either! It was too early...he still had a good decade or so of life ahead of him...

But the cadaver with the golden eyes - for golden they were, and shining with a vindictive light - was able to hold him beneath the water so easily, despite the fact that it, too, was more or less fully dressed and quite thin. This creature was outfitted in a fine shirt and black trousers - something one would wear to the Opera. Perhaps this was the ghost of an unfortunate man who had drowned in the lake? Philippe wondered deliriously as he continued to fight hopelessly. He suddenly realised - Opera Ghost! _Le Fantôme!_ This creature - this man - this ghostly figure - was surely the Phantom Raoul had told him of, the one Raoul had run off to kill...oh, what had he gotten himself into?

Philippe struggled against the living cadaver, wild desperation writhing in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the surface so near yet to unattainable. He now cursed the fact that he had found the rowboat...this strong swimmer of a skeleton was now wrapping its arms about his chest, forcing out the last bubbles of air from his already starving lungs. In the dark lake, the Comte de Chagny struggled feebly, and with his last thought prayed for his brother to have not suffered the same fate as he had.

Soon Philippe's vision dimmed, and then all was gone...all drowned in the crushing grip of a living corpse at the bottom of a cold, black lake.

* * *

**-**_**Christine**_**-**

* * *

I stood up with a sharp gasp, dropping the silver dagger I had previously hidden and whirling around to face the opening front door. I stared in shock as Erik entered, not appearing angry at all, but rather pleased - in a mad way. But that was not what surprised me; what surprised me was that he was dripping wet, from head to foot. His black locks were plastered to his head, the white skin of his scalp visible in some places, while his clothing dripped onto the carpet. The white shirt he wore was wet through, stuck fast to his thin chest and hanging from one shoulder, and his feet were bare, for he held his boots in one hand. Erik grinned at me from between locks of wet hair, his cheekbones lightly flushed and his eyes bright.

'Christine, my dear - you are awake!' he remarked happily. From his tone I could tell that he had left his sanity far behind. 'Good...now I can share with you some tremendous news!' He dropped his black boots onto the carpet, then straightened up and rubbed his hands together. 'A great thing has happened - great but sad. Greatly sad, in fact - though sadly, great for me! Haha! You may have heard my doorbell ringing (did you know I have a doorbell?) and that is why I left so hurriedly. And now (oh, infinite joy!) I have made sure our visitor doesn't ring any more, so we shall never more be disturbed, you and I!' What did he mean by this? I listened, trying to make sense of his riddles. 'Because you see, Christine,' he continued conversationally, 'I have noticed how upset you become when it comes to choosing between Monsieur le Vicomte and Erik (probably since Erik is so much more handsome and you do not wish to hurt the Vicomte's delicate sentiments) - and _well_, you will be relieved to learn that the choice is _no longer there!_' I froze, dreading what he was about to say. He gave a deep, vibrant laugh then went on: 'I wondered who our visitor was, but I shouldn't have, should I? Can you guess who he was? Who the Siren went out to meet? Well, I shall tell you: it was none other than that troublesome young Monsieur de Chagny!'

'It couldn't have been,' I breathed, denying it completely, but Erik only laughed, pushing the wet hair from his ghastly face.

'I believe it was indeed,' he said. 'For I know he was fair-haired and had a rather silly little moustache...'

'No...' I whispered hoarsely, beginning to tremble at the fate of poor Raoul.

'The Siren wouldn't stand for it,' Erik told me. 'When the boy heard the voice and looked over the side, _splash_! He was taken straight under. Haha! Poor thing - to think, a sailor lad who could not swim for his life!'

My hand over my mouth and tears beginning to leak from my eyes, I saw in Erik's eyes that this was the truth. He had killed Raoul...Raoul was _dead_. Dead! Drowned in the nasty black lake! Oh, my poor, poor friend! We had been just about to leave this hell...oh, Raoul!

'I believe the time has come for a requiem,' Erik declared, and began to sing in a heart-rending, painfully beautiful voice full of melancholy and graveness, despite his earlier vindictive glee.

'_Lacrimosa! Dies illa! Qua resurget ex favilla judicandus homo reus!_' I sat weeping, trying to block out the sounds of Erik's rendition of the _Lacrimosa_, wishing I could be with Raoul - dead with him, rather than alive with this creature. When the tremulous song of mourning drew to a close, Erik gave a small sigh, and then noticed the silver dagger I had taken into my shaking hands.

'Not yet, my love, not yet!' he exclaimed and, before I had realised it, he had moved forwards and prised the dagger from my fingers. He looked at the blade speculatively. 'Hmm...I know this from somewhere...never mind. I suppose I must bind you now, to keep you from ending yourself when it is still not yet time.' Annoyance was in his voice, and he seized my wrist.

'Erik, let go of me! Let me go...' I cried, hardly able to speak through my sobs.

'Ah! But I won't...I do not want you to run away from your poor Erik this time, Christine,' he told me. 'When I heard of your plan, I knew that you must never leave me again. And now you are here with me - so here we are.'

I wept as he picked up a length of rope and tied me firmly to a chair. 'Erik, you are hurting me!' I sobbed when he tightened my bonds roughly.

'As you have caused Erik infinite pain and suffering, I suppose it is only _fair_,' he hissed in annoyance at my complaints. 'Now, _ma chère_, I am afraid you are faced with another choice. Are you listening?'

I nodded warily, wondering what this choice could be. Erik knelt down near me so that our heads were at equal height. I was now so used to his horrific features that I did not even flinch, and simply stared steadily at him all the while.

'One choice, Christine, is to marry me,' he said, softly and tenderly. 'Marry me and live forever happy by my side. I have finally completed my opera, and I have made myself a new mask - a mask that is an illusion in itself, making me appear just like any normal man! We shall be able to take walks in the park like a normal couple, and live normal lives!'

'What is the other choice?' I asked quietly, and Erik's eyes hardened.

'The other choice,' he said slowly, 'will end this tragedy for everybody...but it will not be very convenient for the families of everybody inside this building at this very moment. It will result in many funerals, I believe...and the Opéra Garnier will be no more.' He got to his feet. 'I appreciate, again, that you may require a bit of decision-making time for this choice. I will leave you for a while to think about it. Now I must retire; I have much to do.'

With that, he stalked away, leaving me tied up in the dark room, all alone.

* * *

I don't know for how long I struggled in my bonds. He had left me a clock in the room, and I could see I still had a good while left. But I did not _want_ to think, I did not _want_ to make decisions about the future - all I wanted to do was escape, and fling myself into the lake after my poor Raoul.

My thoughts were disturbed as the door opened and Erik returned. He looked as if he had done some thinking himself; his face was drawn with pain and there was a mad agitation in his eyes.

'Well, Christine? Have you decided? Is it to be the wedding mass or the funeral mass? Tell me!' he exclaimed. When I spoke no word, he gave a low groan. 'Christine, please don't look at me in such a way! I am not really a monster - not really! I only did bad things to compensate for the bad done to _me_. If you married me, you would never, ever fear me - you would see just how nice I can be. I would be the best husband you could hope for...I would only seek your happiness, and I would always be gentle and kind! If I have appeared hateful and horrific to you during these past weeks, know that it is only because I was alone and hated. But if you loved me - or even simply _said_ you loved me, no matter whether you really did or not - I would show you the same love a hundredfold! I suppose I am like a mirror in some ways...I reflect what people show me, and if you showed me the smallest sign of affection by consenting to marry me, you would get it back more intensely than ever!' I could not reply to him; all I could do was weep, which dismayed him. 'Stop crying, Christine...besides, if you _do_ marry me, it will not be for long - not long at all! I will probably be dead a few days after our wedding!' he reasoned, trying to comfort me in his own odd way. But his words only served to heighten my despair as I sobbed silently. My dejection led him to become increasingly distressed, until finally he screamed out: '_You don't love me!_ _You don't love me!_', his eyes beginning to shine too. When I failed to oppose this, Erik cried hoarsely: 'Until 11 pm, then! Make your choice wisely!' and left me once more.

What choice was there? In this circumstance I would have chosen death, but he had mentioned that with my death there would also come the deaths of many, many others - in fact, of the entire Opera house itself. I shivered, knowing I could not be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people...but how could I ever survive as Erik's wife?

'..._Christine!...Christine!_'

I stiffened in my bonds, giving a sharp gasp. I looked about the room fearfully; that voice was most certainly not Erik's...but I must have been hearing ghosts, for the owner of that voice was dead!

'Raoul?' I breathed in a barely audible whisper. There was no reply. But then, a few seconds later:

'..._Christine!_'

I shuddered in the ropes that held me, shaking my head to clear it of these impossible voices. 'I must be becoming insane,' I murmured sadly.

'_Christine? Can you hear me? It's me - Raoul! Christine, answer me, please!_'

'Raoul...' I gasped again, sure this time that I had really heard the voice.

'_Yes! Yes, it is I! We have come to save you - but please warn us if _he_ returns._'

'But...but you are dead!' I told him. There was a slight pause.

'_Dead? Of course I'm not dead - I'm right here, in the torture chamber!_'

My eyes widened. '_Torture_ chamber?' I cried. Now I was certain I was not dreaming; I had not even _known_ Erik had a torture chamber...but then again, it did seem quite natural. Nevertheless, it took Raoul some time to convince me that he really was alive, and in a room near me, with none other than the Persian, who knew Erik well.

'I know he keeps a key somewhere, but I shall never be able to get it to let you out,' I told them despairingly. I had long wondered what the locked room was in Erik's house, and although I had seen the key, he had warned me never to touch it.

'_Why?_' came the desperate question.

I sighed hopelessly. 'Because I am tied up!'

'Christine?'

The voices in the torture chamber were abruptly silenced, and my heart almost stopped as I perceived the tall form of Erik, who had just entered the room. He looked at me critically.

'Who, may I ask, are you talking to?' he enquired softly but with heavy, dangerous suspicion.

I refused to let myself give Raoul and the Persian away. I glared at Erik angrily. 'To _you_,' I told him stubbornly. 'I have asked you several times now to untie me - you have bound me too tightly.' Although this erased Erik's suspicions for the moment, he merely crossed his arms in a way that suggested he was never going to release my bonds. I frowned in indignation. 'This is no way to treat one's future wife, you know - you are doing this all wrong!' At the insinuation of my accepting his strange proposal of marriage, something rather heartfelt flickered over Erik's mangled features.

'Oh, of course...do forgive me, I am not accustomed to this,' he excused himself, and proceeded to free me from the ropes. I got to my feet slowly, rubbing at my arms where the ropes had cut into them.

'Now, let us retire to the organ; I wish to play something,' he murmured, drifting out of the room with me following at a careful distance. Poor man, I found myself thinking. His madness is truly manifesting itself now...

* * *

My fingertips tingled as Erik blistered his own against the keys of the organ in another of his terrible opera pieces. He had informed me that this was the final scene of his _Don Juan_...the opera that he had completed recently. It seemed he had changed his decision of dying when it was finished...or had he? The second option he had given me seemed to suggest that Death would come upon everyone were I to refuse to be his bride.

I watched him with haunted eyes as he lost himself in his music, apparently having completely forgotten my presence. My gaze travelled slowly and fixed upon a small, leather bag that lay well within a hand's reach...a bag that I knew contained the key to his torture room. I shuddered to imagine what that torture room was like; I envisioned it as a dark, grim, rather medieval affair with metal devices designed to kill with excruciating slowness. What I needed to do was take the key now, while Erik was occupied and could never notice...

Stealthily, slyly, my trembling hand reached towards the bag while the horrible, bone-shaking music continued. Slowly I reached, and then, in one quick movement, closed my fingers around the bag and gripped it tightly in my fist.

For a short moment, I stood stock-still, hardly able to believe I had succeeded in taking it without him seeing. Heart pounding, I slowly, slowly backed away from the thin figure at the organ, making my way silent and unnoticed towards the door of the torture chamber in the other room. If I could unlock the door and let Raoul and the Persian out, then they could invariably help me against Erik...but at the moment, while they were on the other side of the wall, all of us were at Erik's mercy.

I tried so hard to be quiet and unperceptible. Really, I did - but even so, I had barely reached the doorway when the ghastly music was replaced by equally terrible silence, broken only by the dangerous voice of Erik saying quietly: 'Christine...why have you taken my bag?'

Terror seized me as he turned around and fixed me with a golden-eyed stare. I made no move to conceal the bag, for he already knew I had it. Instead, I stood rooted to the spot, like a child caught in a disobedient act and on the verge of being severely punished. Erik was beginning to grow annoyed.

'Why have you taken my bag?' he enquired, his vexation apparent in the tightness of his jaw and steely hardness of his gaze.

He began to rise from the piano bench, long, thin legs unfolding to bring him to his full, intimidating height. I did not wait for him to stand - I ran from the room as quickly as I could, desperation coursing through me. The only thing in my mind was to reach the torture chamber door, to push the key into the lock and fling it open before the monster could catch me and pry the leather bag from my hands. Adrenalin rushed through my body as I tore through the drawing room and into the small room leading off it.

'What are you running away for?' demanded the furious voice now pursuing me. 'Christine, give me back my bag! It's _mine_! It is the bag that gives life or death!'

I entered the room, arrived before the door - only to find that Erik had, by some incredible feat for a man of his poor health, overtaken me and now stood between me and the door of the torture chamber.

'Why did you take it?' he asked me severely, looming over me fearsomely in the semi-darkness.

I thought quickly. 'I...I have realised that there is still much I do not know about you,' I told him firmly. 'I do not even know what is in every room of your house. How can I take a husband if I have not properly seen all the rooms of the house I am to share with him?' If I could just make him allow me to open the door, then I would have more of a chance with Raoul and the Persian by my side...

The sharp tenseness of his angular shoulders softened a little. 'We will not live in this house, my dearest - no, not in _this_ nasty underground prison,' he said, then suddenly gave a rather cruel laugh. 'But you do not care much for talk of houses, do you? Erik is not as conveniently dull-witted as you might wish him to be. I think that it is not the room that interests you so suddenly, but what is _inside_ the room...'

'Of course not! What are you talking about?' I argued indignantly, but my fear gave my voice no truthful tone whatsoever. By countering his suspicions, I had only confirmed them. Erik bared his teeth in fearsome triumph.

'Give me the bag!' he growled.

'No!'

He would not listen; I no longer had any true control or influence over him. He was not so afraid of harming me, especially not after all the harm I had unknowingly done to him. His painfully cold, strong fingers grabbed at my wrist, tendons writhing under his skin as he tightened his grip. I gave a cry of pain, releasing the bag, which he grabbed with a loud, inhuman laugh of victory.

Then, as Erik held the bag clutched in his hand, satisfied, there came a distinct cry of rage and frustration from the opposite side of the wall. Erik's eyes snapped towards me, and a most horribly vindictive smile slowly crept across his face.

'Aha!' he said. 'So my senses were not deceiving me...and you were lying to me. It isn't very nice to lie, Christine...nor is it very _wise_, in these circumstances. You are forgetting who I am...'

'No, I know very well who you are,' I sniped back, seized with sudden bitterness. 'A foul, heartless _beast!'_

'"_Une affreuse bête sans coeur_", eh?' Erik repeated delicately. 'Oh dear. You are quite lucky that I have been called worse - if I had not, I suppose I would have been quite hurt by your rash words, Christine!' He chuckled softly, and then turned to face the wall behind which the two men were. 'I can guess, by your sudden agitation, that it is your dear, simpering little fiancé stuck in my torture-chamber. Haha! I am right, am I? Yes, I am right - I can see the terror on your face that proves me correct! Hahaha! So now the pretty fly with bright little iridiscent wings of braveness has gotten itself so foolishly caught in the inescapable web of the awful, hideous spider...how sad! But it was really the little fly's own fault, wasn't it? If he did not have the insufferable urge to interfere, he would be flying away most merrily!' Erik suddenly became mockingly theatrical. 'O, misery me!' he sighed. 'What a tragedy lies before us...but oh, how I tire of all this! You said you wished to see the room - well, my dear, there is no need to open the door! Had you but told me you wished to see inside, we would not have had to endure this drama...now...'

Erik flitted over to the solitary oil lamps and extinguished them, plunging the room into darkness. I shivered. 'Erik! I don't like this...turn the light back on - please!'

But he only chuckled. 'No need, no need - look! See the bright window up there? Why don't you look through it?' He ran off with amazing sprightliness and returned dragging a wooden stepladder. 'Climb up and see, _ma colombe_!'

I was hesitant, but my need to see whether Raoul was unharmed - and my curiosity - made me slowly climb the ladder while Erik held it in a rather gallant manner. It seemed he had forgotten that he had so triumphantly been announcing Raoul's murder in the lake...but if Raoul was alive, then who _had_ been killed? For the moment, it was the least of my worries; there was something far more sinister afoot at present.

I reached the top step of the ladder, looked through the window, and gasped.

The room on the other side of the wall was a strange and fascinating sight; I found myself staring into a never-ending expanse of bare, curiously artistic iron trees, all arranged in poker-straight rows, going on further than the eye could see. It was a curious forest I now looked at - a forest where all the trees were identical, and grew in long, long rows in four directions, trailing off into infinity. I took a moment to gaze at this, then discovered the secret of Erik's iron forest, so brightly lit: there was really only one tree in the room, and all four walls were covered with mirrors, smoothly and almost seamlessly joined to create the glorious illusion of being in the middle of a vast, disconcertingly regimental forest. I could not imagine for the life of me why this room was called the torture-chamber...apart from fooling the eye briefly, there appeared to be nothing very painful in there - except for the grim noose that hung from the branch of the iron tree. But what truly shocked me was the sight of two very familiar personages in formal evening dress who were standing close to one wall. I recognised them immediately: the one with the childlike expression of awe on his face - for it seemed the illusion had only just been revealed to them - was none other than my dearest Raoul, and the other, wearing an astrakhan and a rather tense, wary expression was the Persian. I could not seem to understand precisely why the Persian looked so horror-struck and anxious, but judging from the look upon his face, he was acquainted with Erik's tortures and something bad was invariably going to happen. My own face paled at the thought, and I began to tremble.

'Oh, but Christine! You grow so pale!' exclaimed the mellifluous voice from the darkness at the foot of the stepladder. 'Come down from there, before you fall. Come - there we are. Now tell me what you saw...was there anyone in there?

'No,' I said, still shivering, but the despondency in my voice masked my falsehoods. 'I saw no one.'

'Then why do you shake so, my poor darling?' Erik enquired. 'Why do you tremble when you say yourself that the torture-chamber is empty? But I would like to also know: how did you find the décor of my room? Hmm?'

'Oh - it was quite enthralling,' I told him, not needing to lie this time. 'I have never seen anything like it.'

This seemed to please him greatly, for he beamed. 'Of course you have not - it is one of my greatest illusions (and I do say _one_ of them, for I have very many)...that illusion I first put together and developed in Persia,' he explained with proud reminiscence. 'It has many complicated little tricks about it, such as the rotating mirrors that can create an entirely new scene, the mirrors being mounted on hidden rollers.'

'It does seem very clever and artistic indeed,' I affirmed humbly, wanting to humour him so that he would perhaps forget about the two victims locked in the torture-chamber. 'There is nobody I know who can rise to this level of genius -'

'Ah, but I am _tired_ of it!' Erik suddenly cried, throwing up his hands. 'I am tired of madly veering from below the level of common mortals to abpve it! I only wish, _for once in my miserable life_, to be on the _same_ level! Is that really too much to ask? For my entire existence I have been subject to the most intense of agitations - hardly a year has gone by without my being praised for a feat of creativity or hounded for my pure monstrosity. I am _drained_ now, Christine...I don't want to run or hide or strive to reach the zenith of artistic ability, nor do I want to languish in this subterranean lair any more. I am tired...all I want is to rest. I am sure you, too, have had all too much excitement, along with everybody in the Opera house above us. So I have given you the privilege of choosing the way the pair of us will end this constant agitation: we will either repose peacefully together in a lovely, above-ground home, or sleep for all eternity right here, where we will nevermore be disturbed. You still have until eleven p.m to make that choice.' His voice was heavy and sober, as if he was at the end of his tether. For some reason, this tranquility terrified me more than his rage. This gentle weariness in him was fully capable of inciting him to bring death upon everybody in the Opera house. He was too tired and wretched for any sense of guilt or compassion; I myself was beginning to grow dreadfully fearful for Raoul and the Persian now.

'Erik, please turn off the light in the window,' I begged him. 'I have satisfied my curiosity - turn the light off!'

But he simply ignored me, or just did not hear. 'Please, Erik, turn off the light!' I entreated, for that little light filled me with strange dread.

'I thought you did not like the darkness,' he murmured softly.

'Erik, please!' I pleaded again, and then I became aware of an uncomfortable heat spreading over me. Was I ill? Had all this terrible excitement made me feverish? 'Is it not very hot in here?'

Erik suddenly began to laugh, which struck fear into my heart once more. 'Oh, yes!' he agreed. 'In the countries close to the Equator, you see, Christine, the sun is very very hot - and did you not notice that the forest next door is an _African_ forest?'

I gasped as I realised what the cruel torture was; poor Raoul and the Persian - Erik's own _acquaintance_! - were locked in a room full of mirrors that slowly grew hotter and hotter, without reprieve! Oh, it was terrible! I ardently begged the monster to stop the heat, but his awful laughter drowned out my words - his awful, curiously musical laugh that rose thunderously, shaking his entire frame. I cried and pleaded, growing increasingly hysterical. My despair only heightened as my own pleas were echoed by Raoul's helpless voice crying out in panic. Erik's eyes flashed vindictively. 'Aha! So the presence of those _other_ voices escaped your notice, did they? Never mind, now we know for sure that we have guests here with us!'

I could hear Raoul's voice, alternatively threatening and pleading with Erik, begging to be released. I could not hear the Persian. Erik only grinned wickedly at the sound of my poor fiancé's cries.

'Ah, _voilà une fervente supplique_!' laughed Erik loudly, mocking Raoul's pleas. 'What a fervent supplication, indeed!' He raised his voice even more. 'Your hand at the level of your eyes, monsieur! Always at the level of your eyes! Haha!'

I myself begged and begged the towering form of Erik, trying in vain to make him see reason. Raoul was going to die and I could not stop it! Oh, God help me! He did not deserve this - oh, poor, poor Raoul...oh, my dearest friend...

I collapsed unconscious onto the floor, the Phantom's painfully triumphant voice ringing in my ears.


	16. Chapter 15: The Final Confrontation

_**A/N: Terribly sorry! Turns out it's not the net after all - there's a worm on my computer slowly eating its way through the hard drive, and the Internet connections is the place it's decided to start. Anyway - t**__**hank you very very much to Madhatter45 (Aw, that's so sweet!) and Verify Me (:D) for the reviews.**_

_**On we go, before this thing randomly shuts down...**_

* * *

I woke to panic, and terrible forboding. How long had I been unconscious? A few minutes? A few hours? Oh, curse this dreadful predicament! I could only hope that Raoul was still alive...

When I left the room I had been dragged into, I came face to face with the monster himself. He had been madly pacing the drawing room, stopping only to take a hefty draught now and then from some nasty-looking liquid in a clear bottle nearby that appeared to be sustaining him. He noticed me almost immediately, wheeling about and fixing me with bloodshot eyes as I stood watching him, full of horror.

'Christine!' he snarled, full of the insane rage I so ardently dreaded. 'I will not stand this much longer! You _must_ say "yes" - you _must_ accept to be my wife! I will die if you keep me in such a state any longer - but ah! that is what you wish, is it not? You wish to see me die so you will be rid of me forever! Well, I shall not be so co-operative; I will cling on to life until you tell me you will marry me - or until we all die!'

He started towards me, and I backed away. 'Say it, Christine!' he raved. 'Say "yes"! Let me be your husband! Accept me! _Dis oui, sinon tout le monde mourra, ce soir-même!_ Say yes or _everybody_ will die, this very night!'

But I wouldn't say yes, I couldn't! 'I will only say it if you give me the key to the torture chamber!' I cried defiantly. However, he was not to be reasoned with.

'We don't need that key, foolish child! You will never have it!' he bawled. 'Now say "yes"! Say "yes, Erik, I will marry you", and this nightmare will end!'

'Give me the key and I will say it!'

'Never!' he screamed. 'Heavens, girl, do you understand anything of what I say? I _won't_ give you the key, because it is _mine_, and those in the torture chamber can _stay_ there - they will die anyway, judging by the way things are going! If you don't bend to my will and agree to become my bride, then I shall kill everybody in the Opéra Garnier and its proximities! I will send Death sweeping through the Grande Salle and the foyer, collapsing this building on top of us! Ah, the human race is so foolish, and I am glad, for once, that my appearance makes me apart from it! Accept me, curse you!'

He raved and shouted for hours...it was unbearable. But still I would not give in, still I would not accept him. Make no mistake, it was not out of selfishness - though God knew how I resented the thought of being married to Erik - but instead out of hopeless need to somehow release Raoul and the Persian Daroga from the torture chamber, if they were still alive. Erik and I were like two insane people arguing: our argument always went about in a circle, with no end to it. He would order me in thunderous tones to accept him, while I shouted back, saying that I would only accept if he let the victims out, while _he_ in turn bawled that he would not give me the key, for the sight of Raoul would _never _make me pledge my hand to Erik...it was an infernal, terrible circle, that lasted for a very long time. Finally, truly beside himself, Erik staggered over to the entrance of the Louis-Philippe room and pointed a shaking finger through the doorway. He turned sharply, his blazing eyes burning into me.

'Five minutes!' he said hoarsely. 'I shall give you five minutes, and five only, to make your final decision. I do not have the strength nor the will to argue with you, petulant child...therefore I shall leave you here and give you until eleven p.m to decide. On the mantlepiece of this room you will find two little boxes. In one of these boxes is a scorpion - a bronze one, no need to flinch so, silly girl - and in the other sits a frog. I don't want your answer to me to come from your reluctant lips...I have no wish to hear it uttered with such tiresome fear. Instead, you shall turn one of these bronze creatures to face the opposite direction in which it already is. If you turn the scorpion, I shall know that your answer is "yes", and we shall enjoy a normal, painless life together. If you choose to turn the frog, then I shall know you have said "no", and none of us will ever see the sun rise over Paris again! I shall leave you now, and I will return.'

At that, he swept out of the room, leaving me entirely by myself. As soon as I was alone, I went into the room I had previously lost consciousness in - the room that lay right next to the torture chamber, where Raoul most probably was. I began to tremble from head to foot, not having the slightest idea whether or not my poor friend was still alive.

'Raoul?' My voice was quivering just as much as I was. There was a long, tense moment of silence, in which the only sound I could hear was the throbbing of my own fearful heart.

Two voices, blessedly welcome, both replied at the same time, full of relief at hearing my voice so near to them. It sounded as if they had gone through a terrible ordeal behind the wall, and I was anxious to know if they were not seriously hurt. They, too, were anxious to know about what had happened to me, and so I told them what dreadful things Erik had said in the last infernal hours past. They assured me they were well, for I felt the wall and it was no longer hot.

'Mademoiselle Daaé! What time is it now, if the monster has been with you for hours and hours?' cried out the Persian.

I glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece, wringing my hands. 'It is five minutes to eleven!' I sobbed in despair, no longer wanting to bear this terrible pressure.

'_Onze heures moins cinq?_' yelped a second voice, the voice of my dearest Raoul. 'Christine! Oh, Christine, we escaped the torture room, and we are now in the monster's cellar! We know his plan now - if you refuse him, he will set off the barrels of gunpowder stacked right here, next to us! There is enough here to blow up the entire Opera House! You must turn the scorpion, _now_!'

My heart almost stopped, and my body felt terribly cold all of a sudden. Barrels of gunpowder, in Erik's cellar? And poor Raoul, trapped right next to them! Oh, what an awful horror seized my limbs now, at the thought of my simple word deciding on the fate of hundreds of unknowing souls upstairs listening to the compositions of various musicians! I wanted to die, yes, but not like this - not with so many innocent people! That would be murder, and I could not bear the thought of my poor, poor Raoul dying with me in such a way...

'Go, Christine! Go and turn the scorpion, quickly!'

I looked towards the two little boxes, and, heart pounding, opened them slowly. The bronze glint of two small figures gleamed in the lamplight. Mesmerised, I stared at the scorpion's curling tail and bulbous, barbed sting, at its angular legs and armoured back. It looked curiously lifelike, and unquestionably deadly...whereas the frog looked considerably more benign. My hand gently touched the box of the scorpion -

'Christine? Where are you?'

I took a deep breath. 'By the scorpion,' I replied, voice trembling.

'Don't touch it!' I heard the Persian yell out, and I snatched my hand away quickly. 'It might be another of that creature's morbid ruses!'

Suddenly I became aware of a terrible sound that made me shake all over - the approaching sound of the heavy, shuffling footsteps of a dying man with nothing to lose.

'He's coming!' I breathed in fear. 'Oh, God...!'

Sure enough, a long white hand curled about the doorframe and the tall, dark figure of Erik slowly came through, head down. He had long discarded the soaked shirt in favour of a sombre, funereal suit with a white cravat. Now the cravat was loosened, and hung from his pallid neck. He had not bothered to cover his face - only his wild locks occasionally fell onto it, partially obscuring the horrible monstrosity of it as well as the fearsome glimmer of his yellow eyes. As he slowly approached me, he gave off a strange, almost heart-rending air of broken majesty...his once-proud shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his pain, his back curled over from his rapidly deteriorating health. He was like a dying king: his pride shattered, his mein still reminiscent of previous magnificence but sadly and irreversibly broken for evermore. However, any pity I might have felt for him was obscured by my fear and despair as he raised his great head and turned his weary gaze on the two untouched boxes. Then his eyes slowly, slowly travelled back to mine. I stared into those golden wells of pain and saw, with increasing horror, the depths of his loneliness and melancholy and agony...I gazed into the suffering, tortured eyes of the beast who was fully capable of killing me now that he had lost all that had previously mattered to him, and looked deep into that stare that bore a strange sense of near-tenderness...

'_Erik_!' a sharp voice screamed out, breaking the odd, peaceful spell that had come over us. The Persian cried again: 'Erik! It is I! You know me, don't you?'

I expected some alteration of expression on that mutilated face, but the man only blinked slowly and turned his head to the wall.

'So you are not dead after all?' he said calmly. 'Well, I suppose it does not matter to me any longer. Just see that you keep quiet...'

'Listen, Erik -'

'_If you say another word, Daroga, I shall make the decision for Mademoiselle Daaé and blow up the Opera house without a second thought_,' Erik interrupted icily, still full of the fearsome calm.

'But of course,' he continued quietly, 'I should not be so rude. The decision, of course, still rests with you, Mademoiselle.' He turned his head to the boxes on the mantlepiece beside us. 'I see that the scorpion has not been touched...which I would normally assume to mean that she has refused me. However, the frog has not been touched either...which entertains the notion that she has not _truly_ refused me. But of course - she still has two minutes left. Choose, Mademoiselle...put us all out of our separate miseries.'

My heart was beating wildly, but still I could not move. What if he was lying? What if the Persian's suspicions were correct, and the scorpion detonated the powder kegs in the cellar? Oh, woe! What was I to do? _What was I to do_?

After a painfully long pause, Erik slowly straightened himself, wincing slightly, then gave a sigh. 'It is eleven p.m now,' he said, with horrible, horrible heaviness. '_Adieu_, Mademoiselle Daaé. Let us end this now -' His white hand reached out, but my own flew out and grabbed his.

'_No!_' I cried. 'Erik...Erik - swear to me now, swear to me that you are telling the truth and the scorpion is the one to turn!'

'Yes, the scorpion will let us be married,' Erik replied softly, his eyes still fixed on the frog.

'Are you certain?'

'Of course I am certain, foolish child! But it is too late now - your time has passed, and you still have not turned to scorpion. I shall turn the frog!'

'Erik!'

'_Enough_!'

I lunged forwards and closed my hands around the cool bronze of the scorpion, and quickly turned it around before Erik could lay his fingers on the frog.

'Erik - I have turned it! I have turned the scorpion!' I sobbed, not knowing whether my life was about to end. Nothing on Erik's face affirmed or denied it - his expression was blank, and horribly neutral. The air was full of tenseness, and I knew the two men behind the wall were not breathing either. Somewhere distantly, I heard a heavy grinding, a thump, and then a hiss that grew louder with every second. I shivered in terror, my fear causing me to grab onto the nearest thing - which happened to be Erik. He did not move, flinch, or make a sound as I held onto him, shaking -

Then, I heard two, slightly muffled cries of joy from the other side of the wall, and the sound of two people splashing in water. Water? So it was not a burning fuse I was hearing! Oh, we were saved! Saved!

The relief was so great that in the face of my extreme fear and despair, all emotion left me. I fell limply against Erik, who stood tall and still, bearing my weight. The sounds of rushing water in the cellars simply became background noise, insignificant, as I looked up into Erik's face. He stared down at me, and the faintest flickers of soft wonder shone in his golden eyes. Gently he took me and led me from the room, led me away from the faint sounds of Raoul and the Daroga...

* * *

I was quite hazy about what had happened, but I think that the scorpion had released a vast amount of water from the lake into the cellars, soaking the barrels of gunpowder and rendering them useless. But the water levels had risen so high as Erik and I sat in the drawing room that at some point, I rose from my seat and knelt before Erik.

'Erik, please...I have turned the scorpion and I have accepted you. I am now your wife. I swear to you that I will stay with you and not make any foolish attempts to take my own life ever again,' I told him. 'I am willing to be your wife, Erik - so you must spare those poor souls who I can hear even now in the torture-chamber, for they no longer have any part to play in this. I will be your wife, Erik, I will marry you!'

His gaze was lingering and soft, and though he spoke not a word, I could tell my words had moved and convinced him. In an instant, he was up, and I followed him into the Louis-Philippe room. Within half a minute, the water that had begun to pool from under the locked door of the torture chamber dried up, and Erik threw it open without a key (for, of course, he was the master of all tricks). I stayed in the room, and watched silently as he carried through first the body of the Persian, and next the limp form of poor Raoul. I stared, fearful for their health. Were we too late? Had they drowned?

When Erik leant over Raoul like Death watching a dying victim, I was not surprised to find no resentment in his features; the events of the past few hours had made him too weary for strong emotion. There was only mild indifference on his mangled face as he waved something beneath Raoul's nose, and the young vicomte stirred, coughing up a rather copious amount of lake-water. He looked quite a state with his blond hair dripping wet, and his clothes dishevelled and damp. I watched him sadly, quietly mourning the knowledge that I would never be able to touch him or comfort him ever again, for I now belonged solely to Erik. But didn't Erik need my touch and comfort just as badly?

I could only look on in silence as Raoul met his bitter arch-enemy's steady gaze. Raoul did not cry out at the sight of Erik's horrible face, nor did he leap to his feet to attack him. Instead, he lay there defencelessly and dejectedly, a tiny sigh escaping from him as his eyes began to fill with tears. He turned his sorrowful eyes to me, but did not say anything; he knew I was Erik's now, and this was why he wept. His tiredness following his recent narrow scrape with death combined with his despair at the fact that he and I were to part ways because Erik had finally triumphed meant that he had no power to take any action, let alone speak. His lips, half-parted, closed again, and his eyes wearily shut as he turned his head to the side.

'He will live,' Erik deduced with clinical detachment. 'I fear that I am not so sure concerning the fate of the Daroga, though...'

I turned and looked at the Persian man, who was lying prone on the bed. He was showing no sign of regaining consciousness just yet, and I felt a flicker of concern. Normally I would have been extremely worried, but at that moment I was drifting in a dream-like state, hardly able to believe that I had just left all that I had once known. I prayed that I would wake to find that all had been a terrible dream...but it just went on and on, and I could do nothing about it. Now it was not a particularly horrible dream - it was merely unreal and unknown.

When the Persian Daroga fortunately woke up, he was considerably less despondent than Raoul had been. He tried to speak to me, weak though he was, to call out to me, but I could not reply to him. I knew Erik would not wish me to, and I was right to believe so.

'Daroga, I would prefer it if you did not talk to my wife or anybody else at the moment,' Erik said crisply. 'Otherwise it may be quite dangerous for everybody's _health_.'

"My wife"! Oh! "My_ wife_"! How easily those two words passed his dead lips - how natural they sounded! But I could scarcely believe that it was me he was referring to...the thought of Erik being my husband was one almost impossible to imagine.

The Persian fell silent. The tea I had brought for him - to which Erik had added a dash of rum - had seemed to calm him, and now he slept, just like Raoul. Poor Raoul...he seemed so young and pale and vulnerable, lying there...if only he had just stayed away - then he would not have had to be hurt in this way! I checked on him regularly, but was careful not to look at him too often, for Erik's heart had always been so tightly constricted by the jade serpent of jealousy. Now our paths were all going to separate...I only hoped that my life would change for the better and that this spelled the end of Erik's madness-driven violence.

Hours passed. Soon I fell asleep, worn out from the high emotions of the day. I no longer cared where I was - all I needed was to sleep, to rest and recover. As my head lolled in the armchair I had sat myself in, my barely-read book tumbling from my slack hands, I became aware of a presence near me. I did not open my eyes, for I knew who it was, and I felt too weary to look. I heard the book being carefully propped back on the shelf, and then, to my surprise, I felt arms around me, lifting me. I did not stir or protest as Erik took me in his arms; I could sense the odd gentleness in the way he held me, the old tenderness that shone through his broken mind even though he had shown me such evil throughout the past couple of days. My head, heavy with sleep, rested against the fabric of his dinner jacket peacefully, so peacefully. Erik was right - we all needed to rest, either in death or in tranquil marriage. For the moment, I could forget his terrible actions and near-murder of everybody in the Opéra Garnier and the streets surrounding it - the ghostly image of a smoking ruin in the middle of a sunken crater was fading due to the gentleness with which Erik now carried me out of the Louis-Philippe room. I could hear the irregularity of his breathing...bearing my weight surely was not healthy for him...

I was put down carefully on something soft, which, by the feel of it, was the sofa in the drawing room. For a few moments Erik lingered by my side, then was gone. I fell asleep quickly, not knowing what tomorrow would bring...

* * *

'I have taken the Daroga to his own living quarters,' Erik informed me quietly when he found me looking about the now-empty Louis-Philippe room. 'He, like myself, is not as young as he used to be - especially not as he used to be Persia - and the little incident he had here will take some recovering from. A man his age isn't supposed to be shaken about a lot, but I have ascertained that he will live. Besides, his servant Darius will be able to take care of him quite satisfactorially, I am sure.'

I was glad to hear that the Persian would live, but I found my mind mostly on the empty space on the sofa - yet I dared not ask after the person who had occupied that space last night. However, Erik knew well what was on my mind, and said lightly: 'The young vicomte, I might add, is a boy full of life who will doubtlessly bounce back after any minor bit of knocking about. He is still young, which means he is still a hardy fellow, despite his rather juvenile appearance, I might add. But of course, who am _I_ to talk about appearances, hmm? Anyway - Monsieur de Chagny is gone, too, and I am sure he will not return.'

I was about to ask exactly where he had gone if he had so little chance of returning, when a terrible thought occurred to me. 'Do you mean he is dead?' I asked Erik, horrified.

'No, no - he is alive, and very much so, even after last night,' Erik reassured me. 'But let us not talk of him...that young lad has tired me so, and I fear I have had to recalculate the dates on my nasty calendar...oh, my, let me sit down...'

Hand cradling his scalp, Erik's long legs folded rather stiffly and he sat himself heavily in the armchair. After a long pause, he looked up at me sadly. He was wearing his black mask again, and though it obscured his features, his eyes glimmered through, full of very human emotion.

'Ah, Christine,' he sighed with terrible weariness that made me suffer as he did. 'What we have been through, you and I - and now, it is finished! We are to be married, quite soon. I shall keep my promise to you as best as I can - I shall show you only kindness throughout our days of marriage. But you, too, must hold up your side of our bargain: you must be my living bride at all times, and not try to be my dead bride, as you almost were yesterday. Will you do that?'

I nodded silently, noticing his weariness turn to detachment once more as he stood shakily.

'I shall leave you now,' he told me indifferently from behind the mask. 'I may return shortly, but I cannot guarantee it.'

'Erik...wait,' I murmured. The softness of my voice froze his steps, and though I could not see what lay beneath the mask, his eyes were all I needed to see. I slowly came forwards, my heart breaking for him - for this poor, shattered man who had seen such horror and hidden in shame from the whole world...for this noble, fading genius who, despite all the evil he had done, had given me a glimpse of true beauty...

It was no longer pity, horror, indifference or hatred I felt for him now. It was a genuine tenderness, brought on from the sight of him lifting himself, ill though he was, to traipse across the room on some errand after having spared the lives of those he had every motive to kill. I felt such a wrenching at my heart for this man - for man he truly was, not monster or creature - who had seen the ugliest side of human nature at the earliest of ages and still kept a quiet sense of dignity.

I moved forwards while he watched me, unsure of what I was doing. Gently, tears pricking at my eyes, I reached up and carefully eased the mask from his face, uncovering the cadaverous features that I held such feeling for. He was nature's mistake, yet he was still living and full of real emotions. His golden eyes held mine, suddenly child-like in his uncertainty. Slowly, slowly, I touched the side of his face, feeling the stringy muscle of his sunken cheek tense beneath my warm palm, then slowly relax. I raised myself and, hardly aware of what I was doing, brought my face close to his and touched his startlingly soft, thin lips with mine. I felt his chest give a great heave as he let out a shocked breath and drew it back in again just as sharply, his mouth trembling. His skin was absurdly thin; I could feel his teeth through his lips, but I did not care. My hand was touching the silky, unkempt black locks on his head, relishing how alive he felt in spite of his deathly appearance. His arms shakily enfolded me, returning the kiss with clumsy shyness. When we finally drew apart, his chest was heaving from the deep emotion I could see in his tear-filled eyes. Suddenly he sank down onto his knees. At first I wondered whether the kiss of his wife had finished him, but then I heard him crying great, raw sobs that I had never heard him cry before. As he raised his face to mine, hands clutching at the hem of my skirt, I saw the mixed tears of joy, sadness and wonder streaming down his poor, mangled features. I, too, began to cry, cradling him gently. The mask lay forgotten and featureless on the floor, no longer needed. Erik, whose lips had never been touched in his entire life, sobbed heavily against me for a long while as I wept with him. After an eternity, he looked up at me, as ugly as ever after his flood of tears but with the pure, unmoveable beauty still flickering in his eyes.

'Forgive me, Christine...oh! I do not deserve this - I do not deserve any of your tenderness! It was never meant for me...no, no!' he wailed. 'My poor love...I am a monstrosity, and I have stolen your joyful, carefree youthfulness! You must not stay with me...Fate only wished me to love you from afar - if I had been destined to marry you and claim those pretty lips, then I would have been born handsome! Or born with a passable face! Oh, Christine!'

I watched his despair in horror, and then he stood and took my hand. He led me out of the room, out of the house, and across the lake, weeping all the while. He pulled me through long, dark corridors, down dingy staircases unused for years, and along cobwebbed passageways that had been long forgotten. Soon we reached a place I had only heard tell of - the dungeons where the old Communards' cells were. We were beneath the fifth level, where nobody ever went anymore. Where was Erik taking me?

When we reached the door of one cell, I heard a scuffling sound, and the loud bang of something striking iron.

'_Monstre_!' stormed a desperate, furious voice I knew very well. 'Let me out of here, you foul creature! You have no right to keep me in this place - let me out at once! What have you done with Christine? Open the door!'

Silently, Erik obliged him and opened the heavy iron door with some difficulty. At once, Raoul staggered out, blinking in the lantern-light and searching for Erik, hands balled into fists.

'Where are you?' he cried with brave defiance, for Erik had retreated out of the light. 'Show yourself!'

'I know that my death is long overdue as it is, but I really must insist you let me live, Monsieur le Vicomte,' Erik's voice replied quietly. 'I still must show you and Christine the way out of this dark underworld...'

At the mention of my name, Raoul froze. 'Christine?' he said. 'Where is she?'

I stepped closer to him, and he noticed me, his eyes widening in shock and disbelieving joy. 'Christine!' he whispered breathlessly.

'I shall release both of you,' came the pained, cracked voice outside the lantern's light. Although Raoul could not see him, I clearly noticed the soft glitter of golden eyes by the wall. 'Both of you should never have been here...you belong in the light and happiness, and it is _I_ who must waste away in the shadows. It was destined to be so, and now I fully deserve my fate...'

Erik stepped into the soft circle of light. He held something in his hand - something golden, which he dropped into my hand. My eyes widened: it was the ring, the bright, gold ring I had lost and he had evidently found!

'I return this to you, for you are to be married to the one whom you deserve to be happy with,' he told me. 'I give you my blessing to marry Monsieur de Chagny. I ask only that you send me a hand-delivered invitation to your wedding, even though I regrettably may not be able to attend.' He turned to face Raoul, who was just as stunned as I was at Erik's change of heart. 'De Chagny...will you marry her? Will you promise to bring her joy every day of her life, and care for her?'

Raoul blinked a few times, but nodded, perplexed.

'Very well...I shall detain you no longer,' Erik said briskly. 'Follow me.'

Silently, Raoul and I followed the tall, dark shadow who held the lantern. Raoul's reaching hand grasped mine, and the pair of us trailed behind Erik like two lost children, winding through the corridors until we reached the part of the cellars we knew, and Erik left us, turning back to disappear into the depths of the darkness, resting his eyes upon me one last time before he wordlessly vanished where nobody would ever find him again.


	17. Chapter 16: The Fall of a Genius

_**A/N:**__** Aw, he got a kiss! x)**_

_**Yay, a review! Thank you Madhatter45 (Yes, I did know it was a grasshopper really, but I decided to keep it simple and have the frog instead. Be prepared for more sadness in this chapter, dearie!)**_

_**Ooh - it's the juicy chapter that you've been waiting for...and dreading. Get your hankies ready! This is NOT the last chapter.**_

_**Oh, yes - and do tell me if you think it's a bit cheesy in some parts. :D**_

* * *

**-**_**Nadir**_**-**

* * *

The Comte Philippe de Chagny was dead - that the Persian had learned from a servant at the now-empty de Chagny house in Paris. The Comte's waterlogged corpse had been found on the banks of the lake under the Opera, still dressed in evening attire. It took no great mind to work out who had murdered him...Furthermore, the young Vicomte, the Comte's youngest sibling and only brother, had disappeared without a trace, and had been reported officially missing...along with, of course, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé.

The Persian had been incapacitated for a few days, following his ordeal in the torture chamber. Searing heat then an almost-drowning was certainly not very good for him...it had done some irreversable damage upon him, and he moved about less easily than he had before. But then again, he was not the man he had been in Persia - his experience had changed him beyond recognition, and most of that experience largely concerned Erik.

Now Nadir had hastened to go down below the Opera house and seek him out. He would make him release Raoul de Chagny, if he still had him, and to free poor Mademoiselle Daaé, who had so unfortunately fallen prey to the violence of Erik's passionate obssessions. He had never imagined a creature like Erik to be capable of falling in love, but then again, he _was_ a man, despite the carnage Nadir had seen him create with his own hands and twisted mind in Mazanderan. The poor girl...it was a wonder she had survived it.

Within minutes he had descended through the Opera's cellars. Years of carefully watching Erik from a distance had ensured that all routes to the house he had built himself beneath the ground were well known to him, and he knew exactly where the old traps lay. But when he finally found myself inside the lair, he came across something he was quite unprepared for.

He had expected to see the drawing room as it usually was, and perhaps hear the voice of the young Mademoiselle Daaé nearby. But what he saw was quite different: the drawing room was a wreckage, full of broken objects and scattered debris. The armchair and several of the tables had been viciously knocked over, and the old keepsakes Erik had fondly kept on the mantlepiece were swept onto the floor, or completely smashed. Several items had been flung at the wall, and one of the large bookcases had been entirely pulled down, spilling books and paper everywhere. The spindly desk was covered with the broken glass of an ink bottle, which dripped its ink down the side and onto the floor. The chair that had formerly been at the desk lay some way away, where it had apparently been kicked. The carved couch was the only marginally unharmed object in the room, for it was too big to be thrown about or smashed. He dreaded to think what had happened here. When he had left this place, Erik had just gotten his own diabolical way, and was due to marry Christine Daaé - so why was there such devastation here? Had there been a struggle? Or had she perhaps displeased him, and caused him to wreak havoc upon his entire house? Nadir dreaded to think what had happened to her - as well as the vicomte. Hurriedly, he tripped his way over the debris and opened the door of the Louis-Philippe room -

He looked about, surprised. The room was empty, perfectly untouched. Mademoiselle Daaé was not here, but it gave him the tiniest flicker of hope to see her room kept as neat and proper as it usually was. However, he desperately needed to find them, wherever they were. He left the bedroom and looked in all the rooms. Each one of them was a scene of devastation and damage, many things broken beyond repair. _What had happened here_?

When the Persian finally burst into Erik's bedroom, he almost stumbled over the organ's bench, which had been upturned and flung at the door in frustration or despair. The hangings on the walls were pulled down, lying crumpled on the floor to reveal the bare, ugly stone beneath. This room was the worse affected by far...

He suddenly perceived what lay underfoot. At first he had assumed they were sheets of paper ripped from a book, but then he noticed that they were actually pieces of a shredded musical score. Erik's opera! Erik's ghastly opera that he had been working on for twenty years, and had recently finished! It was gone, torn up and scattered about the room, stripped from the leather binding that still sat on the untouched organ's stand. The Persian knelt down in horror, picking up a torn corner of one of the sheets. He could see now, the musical notes and odd symbols painstakingly and ever so carefully inscribed in red ink. To think he had not only destroyed his home, but his life's work - the piece of music no mortal ever had, or ever would hear!

This was very unlike Erik...usually when he was in a terrible mood, he would vent his frustrations upon his organ or one of the other instruments he owned. But instead, his pain had been so great that it seemed music was not enough to bear it, and as a result he had destroyed everything, including several of his unique instruments. _Oh, Allah preserve me_! Nadir thought. He truly dreaded what he would find in this dark, ruined tomb of a house...

He crept forwards, towards the half-fallen hangings that were around the coffin. He drew back one of the hangings -

'Allah above!' the Persian gasped.

Lying prone in the coffin was a corpse - the corpse of a man in a dinner jacket, noseless and pale. The cadaver's eyes were closed, and his long, scarred hands - bloody from the wreckage he had inflicted in his moments of pure madness - were neatly crossed over his chest. Was Erik truly dead? Had he flown into a fatal rage, spending the last of his strength in a mad frenzy before collapsing lifeless on the floor? Nadir could imagine the scene well enough: Christine barricaded in her bedroom, terrified, while Erik smashed all of his possessions, and then leaving her room to find him dead...he could almost see the poor child dragging her former guardian's body across the floor and heaving his limp form into the coffin, crossing his arms to make him look proper and peaceful...

This probably meant she had escaped, and was wandering about the cellars, for he had not seen her in the lair. He was about to leave, when he began to wonder...

The Persian leant closer over the body in the coffin, frowning -

'Oh, go to hell, Daroga,' the corpse murmured wearily.

Nadir sighed. 'I believe I am here already. But tell me now - what happened? Where is Christine Daaé? And what have you done with Monsieur de Chagny?'

The corpse opened bleary yellow eyes. 'I haven't done anything to them,' he said weakly. 'They are simply no longer here.'

'Did the vicomte take her away?' he demanded, unrelenting even though Erik appeared so feeble. 'Or did you kill them both, like you killed the Comte Philippe de Chagny? Yes, I know about him, and I know you killed him!'

Erik raised a spidery hand to rub at his temples. 'I did not kill him...it was just a terrible accident...and Christine is with the vicomte.'

'So he ran away with her from you?'

'No, no...I had him locked up - in the Communards' cells, you understand, where nobody would hear him - and I had Christine with me...but then I let him go away with her,' Erik explained, his voice barely audible, brow puckered with sadness.

'You let them go?' Nadir repeated.

'Yes...I let them go with my blessings for their marriage,' Erik told him, and then he sat up quickly. 'She kissed me, Daroga - she _kissed_ me!' Erik confided, looking just as startled as the former. 'She actually came to me and took off my mask and...and...oh! I cannot believe...I still have difficulty realising that she...oh, the dear child! She kissed me, Daroga! With her own soft lips, and so willingly!'

The Persian was in shock. Christine Daaé had kissed this creature? Truly the girl was a marvel - had he been wrong in thinking that she felt only disgust and horror for Erik? The wraithlike man in the coffin was rocking back and forth, spellbound by the memory of the kiss he had never expected to experience in his lifetime.

'But Erik - if she kissed you, then why did you send her to marry the vicomte?' Nadir asked, unable to understand Erik's logic.

Erik sighed shakily, still shivering. 'Ah...you know as well as I do that somebody who has done as much evil as I have is not the least bit worthy of an exceptional young woman like Mademoiselle Daaé...' he explained sadly. 'She is infinitely gentle and kind-hearted...but I nearly killed her, Daroga, and I acquired her hand in the entirely wrong way, because I did not know how else to go about it! I do not deserve her, you see...and she is still young, with so many more years ahead of her than I...she needs a young, handsome husband to care for her, not a decrepit old corpse mouldering in his tomb! I let her go...after she kissed me...oh! She kissed me so tenderly..._elle m'a embrassé si tendrement_...'

The Persian stared at Erik with horrified sympathy. _What passes through your broken mind, Erik?_ he wondered...but of course, some things were never to be answered. Nadir looked about the room. 'If you say that you let her go, then...what has happened to your home?'

Erik brushed the salty tears from his eyes and looked about himself. 'I...I realised for the first time that after all that had happened, I was to die alone, just as I had been destined to be,' he said with quiet sadness. 'I despaired...but it does not matter now.' Erik raised his infinitely miserable yellow eyes to meet the Persian's gaze. 'I'm dying, Daroga,' he confessed softly. 'I had another blasted seizure some while ago...I could barely climb into the coffin. Now I do not need any complicated calculations to know when I will die...'

Nadir watched Erik soberly. 'How long do you have left?' he asked grimly.

Erik gave a small sigh. 'Definitely less than a day,' he replied calmly, then turned his head to face Nadir. 'Daroga, will you do me a final favour? Would you forgive my past cruelties enough to help me out of my coffin?'

'Out of your coffin? Why?'

Erik suddenly appeared very childlike. 'This room is dark and terrible...I can still hear the music, even though it is torn up on the floor. I would like to die in the Louis-Philippe room...that bed was where I was born, so it is only fitting that I should die there...then it would be just as if I had never left it, never lived at all...yes...'

The Persian watched him sadly, and helped him out of the coffin. Erik's stick-thin knees wobbled slightly, but he managed to keep his balance. Slowly he began to walk forwards, sometimes faltering a step and swaying dangerously. But no matter how painful his pace, he did not let Nadir support him.

'No,' he said, 'I wish to make this final walk alone and unaided - it will be the last time I walk, after all, and I would like to savour it while I can.'

The Persian hovered close by nevertheless, ready to catch the man if he fell. It was a terrible thing to see, this tall, once-proud man bent almost double and barely able to shuffle through his own house when he had once marched majestically about and moved with awe-inspiring elegance. The sickness that had plagued him since birth had now robbed him of all that grace, and Nadir, who had seen such horrors in the Mazenderan court, was close to tears at the sight of Erik resolutely dragging his feet across the floor, even though he winced with each step. After a long journey full of agony, Erik collapsed heavily onto the bed, panting, finally allowing Nadir to aid him.

'I shall brew you some tea, my friend,' the Persian said, feeling rather distressed despite himself. 'I shall also fetch some morphine, to ease your pain -'

'No,' interrupted Erik. 'No morphine. It took me long enough to withdraw my dependences on it in Persia; I will not resort to it again.'

'But Erik, it will help you leave this world peacefully -'

'It will rob me of my senses, and I wish to enjoy them while I am still in possession of them,' Erik said, in a final tone. Nadir sighed in defeat.

'Very well,' he replied. 'I shall only bring tea.'

As Nadir left the room, he heard Erik call to him.

'Yes?' he said, turning round.

'_Mamnoon, Nadir - shoma kheyli merhban hastid_,' Erik said, in the Persian's own native tongue. 'Thank you...you are truly very kind.'

The Persian let the smallest of smiles tighten his lips in answer. '_Kahesh mikonam_,' he replied quietly. 'You're welcome.'

* * *

**-**_**Christine**_**-**

* * *

Throughout the past few hours of the third day I had spent with Raoul, away from Paris, I had experienced the most troubling of presentiments...I felt restless for no reason, and could not stop thinking of Erik, alone in his lair. It was impossible to explain why, but I had a terrible, terrible feeling that Erik needed me - that he was suffering and in awful agony. I had heard tell of people who _felt_ when somebody close to them was ailing or dying, even before they had gotten news of it, and I had reason to believe that this odd phenomenon was happening to me. With each hour that passed, my conviction that Erik was in pain and dying grew. Raoul did not understand it; he merely told me I was still under shock from what the creature had done to me. All day he argued against me returning to Paris, for he was so worried that he would lose me again. 'We have just _escaped_ from the nightmare, Christine!' he had said to me in exasperation. 'How can you possibly wish to go back to it? We were lucky to leave with our lives and each other as it is!'

I grudgingly agreed not to go, but then, that night, I began to experience the same restlessness, but of an even greater magnitude. My skin tingled and the tips of my fingers prickled unpleasantly, and I felt this awful ache in my chest that told me I must go at once. So, leaving Raoul at the house we were temporarily staying in, I dressed myself quickly and departed for Paris again.

The sight of the Opéra Garnier again was almost enough to take my breath away, but still I did not pause, rushing straight to the Rue Scribe and entering through the entrance there. My lantern provided me with the light I needed, but I might as well have not brought it, for my feet found the right path for me, light or no light. Soon, I had reached the lair, and, heart pounding fit to burst, I rushed into the drawing room through the front door.

There was destruction all around, and the whole house was in an awful state - but I did not care one bit...all that mattered was the insane impulse that had implanted itself firmly in my head, the impulse to find Erik immediately, wherever he was. Purely by instinct, I stumbled across the room, and entered the Louis-Philippe room -

My entire body froze, the restlessness leaving me all at once.

Erik was lying still and silent on the bed, the covers tucked over his chest, leaving his hands free. Those very hands lay palm-upwards, limp and horribly lifeless. I clasped a hand to my mouth and came forwards, kneeling at his bedside. Discarding my coat, hat and gloves, I touched his poor face, hardly able to believe -

'Mademoiselle Daaé!' a shocked gasp came from the doorway of the room. I turned about, and there was the Persian, his look of surprise barely hiding his apparent distress.

'Monsieur Khan?' I said, rising, then glanced back at Erik. 'Is...is he...?'

'No...no, no, no, he is still alive...but not for long, I fear,' the Persian replied. 'I came quite some while ago to check on him, and he appeared in quite a lamentable state.'

I hung my head, knowing that it was purely my fault that Erik had been swept into madness again and now endangered his own life.

'I returned to see him...' I said, my voice cracking.

'Christine...oh...' a soft sob sounded behind me, and I saw that Erik's eyes were open and swimming with tears.

'Erik!' I quickly knelt by his side, clasping his hands in mine. 'Oh, my dearest, dearest Erik...forgive me! Forgive me!'

I kissed his forehead tenderly, crying as much as he was.

'Why have you come?' came Erik's tortured whisper from the parched lips. 'Why have you returned to the Phantom who has done you such ill? Why forsake your new future husband for a horrible -'

'Don't say that, Erik, don't say that, please!' I wept, cradling his head. 'I have come because I still have a promise to fulfil.'

'Promise?' murmured Erik.

'Yes - the promise I made to be your wife,' I told him, but he gave a low moan of agony and turned his face away from me.

'Oh, do not torment me so - I know I shall wake and find you were just a fanciful vision,' he groaned miserably.

'No, Erik, this is real, I assure you - and no matter what you say, you will not detain me from being joined with you in matrimony,' I said firmly, turning his face back to me.

He looked so horribly lost, and so like a child all of a sudden...'But Christine, as much as your kindness flatters me, I will not survive a full wedding service...'

'Do we need one?' I countered, then turned to the Persian. 'Monsieur Khan...will you be our witness?'

He seemed surprised, but accepted without question. He was shocked that I was going to marry Erik, which aggrieved me - why should Erik not be married? Did he not have the right to? Well, I would prove that I could and would marry him, right here beneath the Opera house!

I took the ring - the plain gold ring Erik had given me so long ago - and, removing it from the fine chain around my neck, gave it to Erik. Hands trembling uncontrollably, he slipped the ring onto my finger. As soon as it was done, and we were wed in our own very small but undeniably holy and true service, I let myself dissolve into tears, comforting Erik as he, too, cried. Both of us let ourselves weep - we let ourselves weep for every cruelty committed by mankind, for every person judged by his face, for every hardship the two of us had endured. I held him tightly as he cried all the tears he had ever held back in his lifetime, all the repressed tears he should have cried when he was a child but did not know the cruelty being done to him. I kissed him, pressing my lips to his poor, mangled face as if every loving kiss could somehow heal the awful pain scarring his soul. When our tears finally ran dry, I became aware that the Persian had left the room, and we were now together. Silently I rose and went to the door, quietly locking it.

'What are you doing?' whispered Erik weakly, head lolling against the pillows tiredly. I did not answer him, but returned immediately to his side and kissed every inch of his face again, even the rim of his missing nose, of which the mere sight had once caused me such revulsion. The more I thought about it, the more I realised how foolish and conceited I had been; how could I have been so cold, how could I have felt such disgust at this poor man's appearance? He was beautiful, in truth - beautiful in his own way that even he could never recognise. I truly wanted to be his wife - in every way.

'Erik,' I explained to him, 'we are married, but not _fully_ married...and you deserve to be truly married to me. I wish our wedding to be properly sealed.'

His lips parted in shock, and his eyes opened with sudden clarity. 'You...you mean...you wish us to consummate our marriage?' he asked, more or less thunderstruck at this proposal.

'I truly meant that I wanted to be your wife,' I replied. 'Our marriage should be a _real_ marriage!'

His protestations were lost by my lips upon his. For a while he lay still, spellbound by his second kiss, but when I climbed upon the bed to recline beside him, he began to cry again. 'Erik...' I murmured softly in dismay at the sight of his tears. 'Please don't cry...you must be happy. You deserve happiness, after all of your misfortune!'

'But Christine, I cannot - I _cannot_ do such a thing to you,' he wept in horror. 'I could never allow myself to befoul your purity...it would be a monstrous, unthinkable thing to do! I am happy with this marriage as it is...you are not obliged to give yourself to me in this way.'

'You don't understand,' I whispered soothingly. 'I am willing, Erik...I _want_ to be your true, living wife! You were the one who saved me from my own darkness when I first came here - Raoul would have made no difference, for if you had not brought me to life again, he would never have noticed me. You were the one who protected me from the shadows when I was alone and friendless, the one I depended on more than I could ever say...and it was only through my fault that you were driven to do the things you did. Despite all that has happened, I do have trust in you...otherwise I would be afraid to do this.'

Erik's eyes filled with wonder at my frank words, and he raised a trembling hand to stroke my cheek. 'Oh, but Christine, I am a broken man now,' he replied sadly. 'I am almost dead. You are offerring to fulfil our marriage while I am on my deathbed?'

'Marriage bed,' I corrected him with gentle optimism, but he shook his head.

'Christine, Christine...it would be a great honour, but...I am so weary, and I don't think I will be able to summon the strength to do this...' he sighed. However, I would not allow him to deny himself my love.

'I will help you...we will make our way slowly,' I said earnestly, kissing him to give him courage. His breathing grew uneven as I tenderly removed his cravat and freed him from the confining material of his jacket. Gently, shyly, I lifted the covers and, after removing my shoes, nestled close to the thin, bony body beneath the sheets. He turned helplessly to me, entirely lost to all he knew. I felt his slender form begin to grow warm next to mine, filling with the same throbbing heat I was experiencing. Erik's hand found mine, gripping it in a tight, trembling grasp.

'My experience in this matter is purely vicarious,' he told me uncertainly as a final warning, worry battling with tenderness upon his face.

'It makes no difference...' I reassured him, and after a while he began to relax against my kisses. It was a surprising fact that despite everything, Erik was still a physical innocent, like myself...My face was starting to flush at the thought of what we were about to do, but I was still perfectly willing. Erik _deserved_ this - it was not too late for him to experience physical pleasure...it was not too late for the pair of us to become man and wife in all senses of the words.

My fingers found the small buttons of his shirt, and I proceeded to carefully undo them. His arms were around me, his own hands - still as graceful as ever - timidly beginning to loosen my dress. I gently relieved him of the shirt, easing the cuffs from his wrists. But when I did so, I found a sight that greatly shocked and saddened me.

'Oh, Erik...!' I whispered, stiffening at the sight of the gruesome, raised scars that ripped across his painfully thin chest. Some were purplish, others white, and some a grisly bruised blue. The knotted scar tissue was everywhere, permament marks of the physical harm caused to him. My horror made Erik lose heart and shy away from me, shamefully covering the ruined mess of his chest with the sheet.

'No, Erik, don't,' I said, putting a hand on his arm.

'The sight of me disgusts you,' he said miserably.

'No - the sight of what others have done to you disgusts me,' I told him. 'The sight of _you_ I find quite the opposite.'

Gradually I regained his trust once more, and I did not let the scars frighten me again as he released his steely grip on the covers and turned to me once more. He soon found with great joy that I allowed him to kiss me, and he sought my lips out with more and more confidence. Steadily he worked his way through my layers of clothing, inexpertly fumbling with the various buttons and ribbons he found. I refused to allow trepidation to steal over me, even though this was the first time I experienced this. I kept fear away from me, letting only tenderness fill my heart. When the final layers were gone, Erik's confidence and will faltered once again. He began to tremble uncontrollably, his features screwing up with bitter wretchedness.

'You are too beautiful, Christine! I cannot sully you - I cannot touch that silky flesh! I will only smudge its perfection...'

'Don't lose heart now, Erik,' I whispered to him soothingly, and shyly put an arm around his chest. Oh! It was such a thin chest, merely made of jutting ribs and skin, it seemed, but how I loved it! How I dearly cherished it, as much as I cherished everything that was _Erik_! The breathtaking touch of bare skin on bare skin made him start, and then, with shaking hands, run a smooth palm up my spine, as if unsure where to place it but desperately needing to touch me, as I needed to touch him. The warm, burning glow of his golden eyes told me he would not protest any longer - that he was finally prepared to do this.

Slowly, slowly, once he was divested of the remainder of his clothing, I eased him onto his side, and then over me. Erik shook and trembled, shifting his weight so that it was not directly upon me, and then, already breathing heavily, pressed his thin, malformed lips to mine. He felt so skeletal and emaciated, but his love was more than any whole man could show. I put my arms around him, and his breath caught as he tried to accustom himself to this exquisite closeness. I could feel more scars, worse than those on his chest, beneath my fingers, and each ridge of his spinal column could be counted beneath my hands. I stroked his hair as he rallied his strength, knowing that this needed to be as unhurried as he could make it - he was dying, after all, and needed to preserve his energy. Tears threatened to overcome me, but I firmly forced all sadness from my mind. This was supposed to be _happy_...this was supposed to be a blissful moment for the both of us. Erik shifted himself again, and I could almost hear the heavy throb of desire in his heart as he curved his neck to kiss my cheek. Instincts controlled his movements, and I cooperated as best as I could. When suddenly the flash of fiery, burning pain I had inwardly dreaded seared through me, Erik gasped as if his final moment had come with that sensation - that electric sensation of our bodies fusing, so naturally it was as if we were two halves fitting back together as we belonged. He seemed aware of my pain, fighting against his urge to move as he himself desperately tried not to lose himself in these unknown feelings. His lips carressed me with heartbreaking tenderness, and when he gave into the primal instinct to move that possessed us both, I felt my own heartbeat spiralling out of control. I had the most wonderful sensation of being _whole_ - as if half of my soul had been stripped from me, and had now returned for the briefest of moments. It no longer mattered to me that Raoul would probably be looking for me...it no longer mattered that Erik was deformed and dying. All that did matter was that we were united, in the tenderest, most intimate of ways. What we shared during those precious minutes was indescribable, and Erik's soft whimpers of wondrous pleasure in my ear were enough to tell me that he felt the same way. I embraced my skeletal other half, and he gathered me even more closely to him, his warm breath against my forehead as we sealed our marriage in the most primal, deep and tender way. His painful gasps grew harsher, and he breathlessly whispered my name, as if imploring me to save him from the unfamiliar barrage of torturingly blissful passion that had possessed him. Soon there was a tightening in his bony arms about me - a clenching of his muscles, his prominent ribs jutting into mine as he lifted me closer...and then, he gave a great, strangled sob, clinging onto me with eyes tightly closed in a tortured expression reminiscent of extreme pain. After several long seconds, he began to breathe again, trying to catch his breath as his entire body relaxed, withdrawing from me to lie peacefully by my side. His chest was heaving, his eyes fevered with wonder and awe. He stared at me for a long while, as if unable to believe what exquisite joining of the souls we had experienced.

'Christine...oh, my dearest Christine...' he sighed, still under shock, beginning to weep silently. 'Never in my life...never have I felt anything so wondrous! Not even the influence of any opiate could compare...oh, Christine!'

He was choking with sobs now, gathering me in his thin arms while I cradled his head against my collarbone, feeling his hot tears drip onto my skin. It felt so odd, but so natural, to be lying unclothed beside the living mystery, to be nestling close to him and comforting him as he wept with wonder and joy. He held me so tightly - almost as if he expected me to vanish from him if he did not keep me close. Eyes tearful, he lovingly kissed me, then stopped, worry furrowing his brow.

'What is it, Erik?' I asked him softly, stroking his face gently to ease the frown. He looked at me rather sheepishly, his cheekbones flushing blotchily.

'You have given me so much, but I have not been able to return it,' he murmured guiltily. 'You did not manage to...reach your own pleasure...'

'Do you think it matters to me?' I asked him dismissively. 'Erik, this was the most breathtaking experience of my life - it was enough. It was more than enough for me, simply to be so close to you...'

Erik let out a small sigh, resting the side of his face against my shoulder, kissing me gently and running his fingers dotingly along my collarbone. 'I feel so strange at the moment...' he confessed. 'I feel lost and so disconcerted - nobody has ever shown me affection like this...' His voice cracked slightly, and I wrapped my arms tighter about him. We lay there, savouring each others' proximity, until Erik murmured: 'Your poor fiancé...what grief will he give you when he finds you have married - _fully_ married - the man he rightfully despises most...but of course, in a few hours' time our marriage will sadly end, and you will be free to go back to him. I imagine he will not be pleased...'

'He will never know,' I replied steadfastly. 'He does not need to know, and so he shall not. Unless...' A sudden, shocking thought came to me.

'Unless what, my dearest?'

'Unless I...I...' I took a deep breath: 'Unless I am with child.'

Erik was silent for a long while, then gave a sad sigh. 'No.'

'No what?'

'You will be fortunate enough _not_ to bear my child,' Erik told me. 'With a deformity like mine, I think it is safe to presume that I have been naturally infertile all my life; therefore, there is no chance of our union having such consequence...'

'Ah...' I replied, unexpectedly feeling a little disappointed. 'So...I will have nothing to remember this moment by? Your talents will be lost forever?' Erik turned his blighted face up to me, surprised.

'You mean you are sorry that I cannot spawn any demons in my own image?' he asked in shock. 'You mean you regret the fact that my dead seed will produce no child? That you are sad I shall die?'

'Yes, I am sad!' I cried wretchedly. 'How can you believe I would look upon your death with anything but horror and great, bottomless misery!'

'No, Christine, do not cry for me...I don't want you to cry...' Erik murmured soothingly, carressing me tenderly. I cradled him to me, breathing in the oddly sweet scent of his hair, feeling the hard, misshapen bones of his skull beneath the thin, papery skin.

Unexpectedly, his body began to quiver, and he started to cough horribly. 'Erik...' I whispered in concern, but he could not stop. All I could do was keep his bucking body still as he coughed and choked, until he finally caught his wheezing breath. 'Oh, Erik...' I said, full of horror, for his chin was splattered with flecks of blood, startlingly red against the pale skin. He gave a shuddering sigh, and weakly helped me clean the blood from his face. He looked so pale as he lay there, so weak and helpless after his bout of coughing blood. Tears stung my eyes, and I pressed the side of my face tenderly against his hand.

'Oh, Erik!' I wept in distress. 'I've killed you! I've finished you for good! I made you spend all the strength you had when it should have been conserved -'

'No, don't say that - of course you have not killed me, foolish child,' he countered with fierce conviction. 'You have given me life! I was dead for all my years in this world - and now, you have breathed real life into me! For the first time, I feel truly alive!'

I dried my tears, holding him close to me. There were no words to describe how sacred Erik was to me now, how infinitely precious...I hated myself for never having realised how much I needed him - for never having _known_ just how much he meant to me - until now, when it was too late to start a new life with him, too late to be able to show him my love every day for the rest of our lives...too late to fall asleep beside him every night...too late to heal his lifetime of pain. Oh, Erik...

As I cradled his frail body to me, I felt so hopeless...I wanted to mend him somehow, to pick up and piece back together the shards of his broken heart and mind, to lift the childlike soul from that freakish, dying body and give it a second life,a second chance in this world. But there was no chance of that; his time had come.

Erik took my hand in his, looking with wonder at how easily they fitted together despite their great differences. My hand, dwarfed by his long, bony, white digits, looked so different to his, yet our fingers twined so simply and easily...his malformed lips graced the ring on my finger, and then he raised his head to seek out my own lips. I gently stroked his poor, mangled face, running my fingers over every unnatural dip and peak, over every knot of muscle and skin, over every bluish-red, broken vein I could see at his temples...

'When I leave you, Christine, you must find the vicomte again,' Erik told me, his voice as soft as an angel's. 'He loves you, regardless of anything you say or do, and he will care for you until the end of your days. You are quite a pair, you and the young de Chagny lad...you will make a very fine couple indeed, as you were always meant to be. You and I, Christine...it would never have been fitting, and fate has not allowed it. We are too different...but I suppose chance has been kind enough to grant us this precious moment together. I love you, Christine, more dearly than anything - that is the truth of the matter. That is why you must go back to him, and forget me after my time has come...'

'I will never forget you, Erik,' I told him, my words heartfelt and choked by tears. 'I have never realised until now how much I love you!'

Erik's golden eyes widened in wonder, and suddenly his face appeared almost human - almost _handsome_.

'_Est-ce bien la verité_?' he whispered. 'Is this really true? Oh, my dear, sweet Christine - only in my most fanciful of dreams did I ever imagine you saying such a thing to _me_!'

'But it _is_ true, Erik...have no doubt of it,' I affirmed, kissing his brow. He relaxed in my arms, his body warm next to mine beneath the covers. In this lonely, underground house, I held him to me lovingly, protecting him from the miserable, cold death he had thought he would die.

'Ah, Christine,' he murmured after a while. 'I suppose this unusual display of affection you show for your poor Erik does have some reason behind it...you are broken inside, just like I have always been - shattered after the death of your father. It only makes sense that your should wish to give your heart to a broken, suffering man, who can understand you when you talk of pain...'

I pondered this, and after a while, I asked him quietly: 'Are you afraid of dying, Erik?'

'Not really,' he replied, his voice humming pleasantly against me. 'We are closely acquainted, Death and I - I have met him several times in my life, and I daresay we are on nodding terms now.'

I shivered. '_I_ fear it...' I confessed.

'Why is that?'

'Because...I don't know what lies on the other side of life,' I told him. 'I'm afraid of not knowing...I'm afraid of being lost in eternal darkness, all alone forever...'

Erik sighed and turned his face slightly to kiss my collarbone. 'You have no need to fear your own death, Christine,' he said softly. 'When your time comes, you shall find my soul waiting for yours in that eternal darkness...I shall guide you through the shadows, and we will depart to whatever is beyond that darkness - together!'

'Oh, Erik,' I whispered, wishing he could wait for me in life as well as in death. After a few tender minutes of loving silence, Erik stirred slightly and gave a heavy sigh.

'What is it?' I asked him quietly.

'Christine...' he said sadly. '...I cannot feel my right arm, and I cannot move my legs any more.' I touched his shoulder fearfully, terrified at the solid evidence that he was slowly leaving me.

'Don't be afraid, Christine...it's alright,' he reassured me. 'I can still feel your touch upon me, and I am still aware of the softness of your skin...'

'I don't want you to die, Erik,' I told him desperately. A look of hopeless sadness was in his eyes, too.

'Nor do I...Christine, I want to live now! But it is too late...look, my legs will not move and the coldness that grips them is spreading over me...I don't like this,' he admitted, sounding lost and helpless.

'Rest yourself, Erik,' I said, attempting to reassure him, as he had comforted me. 'Here...I will hold you.'

He gave a small sigh of mild contentment. 'I feel so peaceful now...I thank you...' he murmured sleepily. 'Oh, my, I am so tired all of a sudden!'

'Sleep, then, my dear husband,' I whispered to him, stroking his hair.

'I shall, my beloved little wife...' he agreed with a drowsy smile, then added: 'My time is near...I see my old friend Death standing over me now. Ah, but I remember I have introduced to him somebody I did not intend to...please, Christine - tell Raoul de Chagny that...I am sorry for what happened to his elder brother.'

'I will tell him,' I replied, and he let out a breath, as if a great weight had been lifted from him.

'Thank you, my love,' he whispered, his voice faint. 'If I do not wake...remember that I will never be truly gone. I will be waiting for you, just beyond this world. Now, I think I would like to sleep...Goodnight, Christine, my love...'

He kissed my lips for the final time.

'Goodnight, my dearest Erik,' I replied. 'Sleep well...'

His golden eyes gently closed, and, nestled safely in my tender embrace, he let himself drift. I listened lovingly to the sound of his breathing as it slowly grew lighter and softer, his limbs completely relaxed against me.

Then, gently - ever so gently and gradually and peacefully - Erik died.


	18. Chapter 17: The Life After Death

_**A/N:**__** OK, this computer is **__**REALLY**__** stressing me out, here. Hopefully it will soon be replaced, and I will not have to make everybody wait so long between chapters...**_

_**I'm judging by the reviews that last chapter was pretty crap-tacular, and I will probably have a second look at it if I get a chance. Anyway, thanks to Verify Me (Sorry about your hurt sensibilities...the end of this will be RC, though!), pastheart (:D I liked the idea of Erik waiting around for Christine, so I used it...mercilessly - hee hee) and Madhatter45 (I'd never bash poor Christine! She had a little self-hating moment because Erik was dying and she felt guilty - and maybe she had come so close to insanity that her guilt was even greater than normal. And there will definitely be more fics after this one! :D) for reviewing.**_

_**Rrright...my dad is soon going to China, so I'd better get this up before it crashes again and there's nobody around to fix it!**_

_**In this chapter - which is not the last one, either, as I shall tell you when it is the last chapter - we are introduced to somebody new. And Christine sees a ghost! :O**_

* * *

Here I lie now, with my poor, late husband's dead body in my arms. I separate myself from him slowly...so slowly, but still every inch I move tears my heart in two. Dreamlike and barely able to believe how empty the world seems now, I dress myself, then return to Erik's side and make his body more presentable, covering the terrible scars on his chest with the shirt, buttoning the black trousers back over the stick-like legs. His head lolls horribly when I prop him against me to put his jacket on, but I gently lean it against me so that it is still. Once he is fully dressed, I lay him back down, tucking the covers around him again, and carefully crossing his arms over his chest. I cannot prevent myself from planting a tender kiss upon his forehead before I leave him forever, as he has left me. But of course - I know he has not truly left me, and he is waiting...as he will wait for many, many years, until Death visits me too.

I leave the room, hands shaking as I unlock the door and enter the drawing room once more. It appears so different now - the magic and mystery within it has died with Erik. It is now simply a room with furniture in it, deep underground; it is no longer the quaint, subterranean drawing room of a tortured genius. The house is empty...

Yet it is not empty of people. Sitting on the couch is the Persian, trying vainly to piece Erik's ruined opera together again, and pacing by the mantlepiece is - _Raoul_!

He turns as I enter, and only just manages to stop himself from running to me. Instead he holds himself back...he suspects something, but I do not care. I take a deep breath. 'Erik is dead,' I inform them, unable to prevent my voice from trembling as I say those terrible, terrible words. The Persian, who had anticipated this, seemed to deflate slightly, looking rather sorrowful despite the fact that he had not always been on the best of terms with Erik. Raoul, however, appears taken aback, and all suspicion erases itself from his face. He looks humbly sober, taking this news in silence.

'How long?' the Persian asks me, his voice gruff.

'A few hours, I think,' I reply. The ring I have removed from my finger, and instead threaded it onto the chain about my neck, so it is close to my heart. It would not do for Raoul to see the ring on my finger; he is fragile enough as it is. He was devastated by the death of his older brother, and mourned ever so deeply for Philippe. As a result, he has become _years_ older - he appears so much more mature and serious, as if he has immediately taken all of Philippe's responsibilities. I feel so sorry for poor Raoul...losing his only brother was such a blow for him. His sisters will also, no doubt, be equally saddened.

'I shall take care of the body,' the Persian says quietly, rising from his sitting place. 'I believe the coffin will be put to good use after all...'

I make my way slowly to Raoul's side, and I feel him put a tentative but comforting hand on my shoulder - a small sign, but a sign nonetheless that he feels compassion for the loss of my former tutor and protector. I look back at the Persian.

'Where will you bury him?' I ask softly. The Persian sighs, and looks about.

'We are underground already, mademoiselle, and once I clear this devastation, this house will make a passable tomb,' he replies. 'After all, Erik knew it would be so in the end - he knew this house would surely be his final resting place. And besides, it is full of his personal possessions - or rather, what is left of them - and there is no place for them but with him. I shall place him in his coffin and seal the house accordingly.'

I nod; his ideas are reasonable. There is a brief moment of silence, and then Raoul - dear Raoul, whom I can call boyish and carefree no longer - murmurs: 'Will you come back with me?' His uncommonly polite uncertainty almost breaks my heart.

'Of course, Raoul - where else could I possibly wish to go?' I say, hurt. I take his hand in mine, and he seems to become more at ease. Together we leave the Persian...we leave Erik's silent, empty tomb of a house...we leave the cellars of the Opéra Garnier...and finally, we leave Paris entirely, departing from the memories forever. The only one who knows to where we are going is my dear Mamma Valerius, for I have left her a note, not giving our specific address but promising I am well and I will write. I know she will not divulge the contents of my note to anyone...she does enjoy keeping a secret, Mamma Valerius.

* * *

Four months have passed now since Erik left this world...four months since he spoke his final words to me, four months since I comforted him in my arms as he died...and nearly three months since Raoul and I were married.

We now live quite some way North from Paris, in the new de Chagny estate. Despite its name, it is a discreet affair, tucked away in the countryside. I love the house dearly; it has a distinct character to it, with its sloping, slate roof and expansive grounds. The gardens stretch out so far from the house, one can barely see the low stone wall that borders them. I adore those gardens, for they are so lush and verdant and full of trees, bushes and flowers that I spend entire days out in the sunshine, and stand outside on the master bedroom's balcony every evening to appreciate the view. There is a small village near to our house, and although the villagers were inquisitive at first about the new inhabitants of the old manor house, they are perfectly amical people who will never know that the young aristocratic couple living near them were reported missing in Paris. I am on fairly good terms with the villagers I occasionally meet, when taking long walks about the countryside surrounding our new house. They are kind to me, especially now that they see I am no proud, haughty Comtesse but a modest young woman who enjoys nature and the sight of wide forests and fields. I am grateful for this acceptance, and I am sure fair Raoul would certainly be accepted too, if he would only leave the house more often and engage any of the passing village people in conversation.

I do so worry about Raoul; he is suffering terribly. It is rare to see an easy smile come to him, now that he has been made the new Comte de Chagny. He was unwilling to take the title, for it reminds him too much of the absence of his brother...but nevertheless, he bears the weight. Now he spends hours in his study, sifting through piles of paperwork. As I cannot rely on him for conversation, I must take long walks outside - for if I stay indoors withou distraction, memories of my poor, sad Erik come to haunt me. I do not wish to think of him - the terrible memories of his misery only bring tears to my eyes and pain to my already broken heart. I remember sometimes, in the middle of the night, the sound of his voice, telling me with desperate optimism: '_I have made myself a new mask - a mask that is an illusion in itself, making me appear just like any normal man! _' He never had the opportunity to show it to me, nor to wear it...now it was far too late. I tried not to think of Erik now, lying in the coffin in his house, dark and sealed under the Opera house...his body slowly decomposing, his magnificent golden eyes rotting away to leave dark, empty eye-sockets, his musician's fingers - which had played such beautiful melodies, and done some truly breathtaking illusions - withering away to bare bones as his fine suit aged and frayed. Nightmarish images of this plagued me at night, and I would wake sobbing and gasping, rousing poor Raoul with my weeping as he slept beside me. He is immensely tolerant; even though he is under such strain of late, he always shows me his love in small ways. He never grumbles at me for waking him, but holds me comfortingly until my tears have stopped. He knows who I cry for, and he does not question it, for he knows himself how painful the loss of a loved one is.

So, to free myself from the nightmares and memories, I pull on my boots, tie my bonnet neatly beneath my chin, and leave the house. First, I always walk the entire length of the garden, passing through the rows of trees and clumps of bushes. We have a gardener who ensures the flowers are always well-weeded and watered. He is one of the very few servants we keep; all Raoul and I have employed is a maid for general housekeeping and a cook, besides the gardener. I sometimes like to watch the gardener, and, seeing my keen interest, explains to me the names of the plants and how they are maintained. I also occasionally help him, which he finds pleasantly surprising, for I do so love to learn about horticulture. Seeing all the flowers beneath the tall green trees brings back distant, distant memories of the woods in Sweden, where I would play as a child. If my father could see me now: Comtesse, and married to the little boy he taught the basics of the violin to!

Once I have reached the very bottom of the garden, which was shaded by trees, I lift my skirts and climb over a part of the stone wall that has collapsed slightly. There was never any need, really, to repair it; there was nobody around who was particularly needed to be kept out. Besides, the small gap in the wall provides me passage out of the garden, and into the woods, where, on the other side of a small ditch, is a delightful footpath that takes me through the woods, between several fields, and eventually back to the front gate of our house.

I walk blissfully along the sandy footpath, breathing in the sweet scent of the forest flowers and tree-sap. The pale path is dappled with the light that shines between the boughs of the trees, and the late afternoon sun provides a gentle glow that brings out all the colours around me. I am very much content in this moment of peace, and I know now why I was so miserable several weeks ago, when I took ill and could not leave the house. It was only a minor illness, brought on from intense grief - but nevertheless, I had been denied the joys of experiencing the breathtaking view of the fields in the evenings. I had been rather unhappy throughout those days I spent bedridden and fainting, but now I am glad that I can enjoy the sunshine once more.

As I make my way along the path, the breeze becomes pleasantly cool when I leave the woods and enter the narrow gap between two fields. The chirping of insects and the birdsong fill my ears, and I realise how much I have missed this during my long stay in the urban city of Paris. Even the parks there cannot compare to this...for _this_ is real nature. While I walk, I become aware of somebody coming the opposite way. Regrettably - even though I do not admit it myself - I am mildly short-sighted, which Raoul jokingly said helped me to see the korrigans during those nights in Bretagne. This meant that it is only until the person comes closer that I can distinguish who she is. From the sight of the blue-and-white dress, it is Madame Annelise Martin, the woman whose husband, I believe, runs the village _boulangerie. _She recognises me, too, as we draw level, for I have taken off my bonnet - all the better to feel the wind in my hair. I fancy I might look a bit wild to her, with my hair stirred by the breeze and my hat swinging negligently in my hand, but she is not the type of woman to judge unkindly.

'_Bonsoir_, Madame Martin,' I say cheerfully.

'_Bonsoir à vous aussi_, Madame la Comtesse!' she replies. When my face flushes at this title that still seems so odd to me, she corrects herself: 'Or rather, Madame de Chagny.' She remembers from the last time we met that I am unaccustomed to being a Comtesse and prefer the more usual-sounding "Madame de Chagny".

'_Comment allez vous?_' I enquire politely.

'Very well, thank you - I have just gone out to enjoy the remarkable weather,' she tells me.

'So have I,' I reply. 'The fields are so beautiful, and the woods are lovely.'

Madame Martin agrees with me full-heartedly, and then suddenly her face breaks into a wide smile.

'Oh, Madame - _félicitations_!' she congratulates me, which puzzles me deeply. 'I see you have a child on the way!'

I frowned, utterly bemused. I blink at her in confusion. 'But Madame Martin - I am not with child, not at all!' I tell her, perplexed.

'Come now, Madame, I can see it plainly!' she says. 'Look!' She gestures to my stomach, and, still completely confused, I put the soft cotton of my dress taut. To my shock, I notice a slight, barely perceptible prominence - a hint of roundess that, while very subtle, is still noticeable _there_. Light-headed, I shake my head.

'But I cannot be...I...I never thought -'

'My dear, I have seen many pregnancies in my time, and I know it when I see it,' she tells me, with a chuckle. 'Madame Benoit is a good midwife here, and I suggest you arrange for a doctor to see you just in case. I am sure Monsieur le Comte will be very pleased!'

'Indeed,' I reply, with a breathless smile. I can scarcely believe it - _me_, pregnant? Suddenly, it comes together...of course, how could I not have noticed? My sickness was not entirely due to grief, but to the changes in me as my child began to grow. Oh, what unexpected news! And to think a simple acquaintance had noticed it before even I did! Madame Martin beams at me.

'Congratulations again, Madame,' she says, and then leaves me standing stock-still and completely shocked. After a while, I tentatively touch my stomach. It does not feel any different to me...a little round, yes, and maybe slightly swollen, but hardly enough to make me believe that an actual _child_ was growing there...

We have not thought of children, Raoul and I - we have not even talked of the subject, for that matter! But now, Raoul is going to have a little son or a little daughter by next year! It is a strange thought, to think that in a year's time I will be a mother, with a child in my arms. Oh! I truly must tell Raoul!

* * *

Raoul is absolutely stunned when I tell him the news, and he immediately calls for a doctor. Dearest Raoul...always so concerned about me! He leaves his paperwork immediately, and embraces me tightly, beaming breathlessly once the fact that he is to be a father begins to sink in. We celebrate outside, spending the afternoon together sitting on a bench and admiring the beauty of our garden.

Then, sometime in the evening, the doctor arrives. His name is Docteur Broussard, and he is perfectly polite with Raoul and I. When he checks me and listens to my heart and breathing, I feel so excited. Finally there will be light in my life - in _our_ lives - after all the pain and death we have endured!

'Congratulations, Madame la Comtesse - you are indeed with child,' he tells me with a smile, and Raoul and I both beam at each other.

'When will our child be born?' asks Raoul, blue eyes shining. Then, the doctor makes a revelation that almost makes my heart stop:

'I would say...in about five to six months,' the doctor tells him. My smile falters suddenly, as my insides freeze. Five to six months...? That would make me four or maybe five months pregnant...

...and I have been married to Raoul for only three.

Panic begins to boil deep within me. Even though he and I have often enough throughout our days of marriage engaged in the occasional nightly show of passion, we had never had any form of advanced physical loving before our wedding.

I can see Raoul counting back the months too, a slight frown on his face. Dread fills me; if the child was conceived four months ago, then that meant that it was conceived in the month _before_ our marriage. And during that month, I had been with Erik.

_No. It cannot be possible._

He had said himself! My poor, departed Erik had told me that he was incapable of having children! He had said that his physical defects made him completely infertile!

But then again...how would he know? Of course, he had never had a chance to conceive any child - or rather, _not_ conceive one, to prove what he assumed. And I had only had that manner of contact with _him_, and nobody else...

Merciful heavens...I am pregnant, and with _Erik_'s child - not Raoul's! Oh, God! What is to become of me? Raoul is no fool - I am sure he has realised it! The room tilts dangerously, my head suddenly too light, and I barely hear the doctor's surprised exclamation of concern before I faint clean away.

* * *

How have events taken such a turn? I have been shamefully avoiding Raoul, and we have not spoken since the doctor came, as I have shut myself in one of the bedrooms. On top of it all, the dreams have come back, more intensely than ever - the dreams that haunt me at night...the ghostly, unwelcome memories of the past that come back to me whether I like it or not.

Tonight, as I sleep in the bed of the dark, little-used room I have sequestered myself in, I have such a dream.

It begins as short snippets of memories that, while being so distant, are unsettlingly vivid. I toss and turn beneath the covers, curled up with one hand unconsciously spread over my abdomen. In the restless darkness, I hear _his_ voice, just as I had on one of those days, so long ago, when I still believed in the Angel of Music. '_The first thing you must learn and remember_,' an echo of Angel's patient teachings intones, '_is to keep the chin raised and the shoulders straight..._' The memories of that disembodied voice instructing me burn my mind with pain and nostalgia, and suddenly I see him again - even though my eyes are closed - with surprising clearness. The proud, hard planes of his mask, black against his pale skin, frown at me while his eyes show contradicting gentleness. I see the golden fire in his eyes, the nimble speed of his fingers over the neck of a violin...the look of infinite bliss on his bare face as he lies over me, lips searching for mine -

I wake from this doze sobbing heavily. I do not want to dream of him - I want to sleep normally, so that I may rest from my long, painful days! I will go mad if I do not have a single night's uninterrupted sleep...I have horrors to face both waking and sleeping, which is slowly killing me. I weep uncontrollably, alone in the dark, unfamiliar room. The child inside me provides little comfort, for I do not want to think about it, either, dreading what will come with its birth. It seems I am completely on my own again, as I had been so long ago, before Erik had made himself known to me. Only this time, I have no Angel to protect me. I am alone...

No - not quite alone.

I freeze, and begin to shiver, clutching the bedclothes to me. I can feel a strange sensation; it is the bizarre sentiment of being _watched_. 'No,' I breathe, limbs locked with fear, but I cannot stop thinking about it...Erik had said, had he not, that he would not leave this world completely after he died? This thought suddenly scares me; it is late at night, and, blind in the darkness, my very heart quivers at the thought of ghouls and ghosts. My train of thinking only intensifies this horrible feeling, and I begin to weep silently in terror, wishing I could run from this room but knowing that my fear has frozen me in place. I am a child again, terrified of what I know is in my bedroom and powerless to leave it -

I sit up, and then I see it - a flash of white in the corner of the dark room, that travels up the wall before vanishing. A scream of pure fear rips itself from my throat at the brief glimpse of this apparition, my heart about to burst from my chest - I know not whether it was a hallucination, but I truly did see it! I am about to die of fright - when suddenly the door opens and the welcome light of a candle illuminates the grim contours of the room's furnishings. I see the blond head behind the candle's light.

'Christine? Whatever is the matter?' Raoul asks me worriedly, rushing to my side. I am sobbing uncontrollably, and I leap from my bed to wrap my arms about him. His comforting, solid warmth chases away the shadows in my heart and mind, and the ghosts are kept at bay.

'Raoul...I s-saw...something in the room...oh, I was so scared...!' I weep into his chest. Raoul raises his candle to shed light about the room, but he sees nothing.

'Christine, you must have been dreaming,' he tells me gently. 'And it is not surprising, seeing as you are sleeping in such a dark, lonely room. Come back to bed with me, _ma chère_; it feels so empty without you.'

I look at him in surprise, wiping my tears away. 'You...you are not angry?' I ask him.

'Why should I be angry?' he says, then realises. 'Ah...well, it does not matter, Christine. I am not angry at you for...that. I am a little..._surprised_...but I suppose nothing can be done about it. Besides, it is _your_ child, as much as anything, and...I suppose I would not object to being its foster father.'

My surprise must be evident on my face, as well as my relief; it feels as if a great, indescribably heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders. He accepts to raise this child? Oh, kind, compassionate Raoul! How could I have doubted he would support me even now, after so much had happened? I am ever so grateful, and it is also wonderful to be able to share my own thoughts and feelings about this child. I had previously kept them all to myself, but now I can finally share my worries.

Later, I am safely in my usual sleeping place, nestled in Raoul's arms. His nightshirt is soft against me, and smells so reassuringly familiar. This feels like the safest place in the world, here in my childhood friend, lover and new husband's arms. No spectre can frighten me now, and I am protected from every undead ghost there might be in the world.

Raoul strokes my arm gently as we share each other's warmth. It is true he has matured incredibly; had I become with child a longer time before our marriage, he would have brooded incessantly and become convinced that I did not love him. But although he may have brooded just a little bit after this revelation, he seems to have thought over it and sympathised with me. He knows that there was something deep between Erik and I, and even though it tears his heart with jealousy, he _accepts_ it - which I find infinitely brave. He has every right to annul our marriage over this child that is not his own; he has every right to make me leave the de Chagny estate - and yet he does not, for he knows I truly do love him. He seems to understand, and that is what strikes me as wonderful about him. I curl closer to him beneath the covers, and I feel his hand tentatively pat my stomach. He is still very hesitant to touch where the child is growing, for it feels strange to him, as it is not his. But he is at least _trying_ to develop a tolerance for it, which I find admirable.

'Christine, my love?'

'Yes?'

'What will happen if...if...?'

'If what?'

Raoul looks uncomfortable. '...if this child is born with -' He gesticulates vaguely about his face. I realise he is right; it had never crossed my mind before, but now it makes so much sense: _what if Erik's child is born deformed, like him_? I would not bear it if my child has to live through every injustice its father did!

I take a breath. 'Its face shall not matter to me,' I tell him resolutely. 'I will love it regardless; that way it shall never go mad with grief and loneliness.' My tone has darknened, and Raoul understands my meaning entirely. He nods in agreement.

'Yes,' he says. 'If we keep it quiet, and never let the poor creature be discovered, then it may have a chance.' I embrace him for courage, and he kisses the top of my head. The poor child...will it really inherit Erik's unfortunate appearance? I am sure Erik would be turning in his grave - or in his tomb, rather - if he ever knew that he had caused another to live through the same fate as he had. But Erik's madness had been caused principally by a terrible upbringing; his mother had not loved him, and his father had apparently left without seeing him. I will not let history repeat itself - I will show Erik's child no disgust or hatred, and I will give it only love and caring!

My mind made up and my thoughts relatively settled, I rest my forehead against Raoul's shoulder and finally sleep peacefully.

* * *

There is gentle light in our bedroom, but I cling more closely to the blissful, warm darkness of sleep. The time doesn't matter to me - my limbs feel so wondrously heavy that I judge it to be quite early in the morning. I move my foot lazily under the covers, blindly searching for Raoul's warmth beside me, but I only feel cool sheets. He seems to have risen already, but I decide I would very much like to have a few more minutes of rest. Has this bed ever been so comfortable? Have the covers ever been so warm? Even my nightdress seems to have become more soft than usual. I could not open my eyes, even if I wanted to - I feel so at ease that I cannot bring myself to let the brightness of the sunlight through the curtains wake me.

I remember the dream I had last night...it was a very long dream, so long that I can only recall snippets of it. It was marvellously vivid and realistic, and I remember that throughout most of the dream I was simply lying in a bed in a dark room, happily reclined in the arms of a man with my head comfortably resting against his chest. I have no doubt about who the man I dreamt of was - there never is any question about it. The chest I rested against was too thin to be Raoul's, and the arms around me were too wiry and pale. But unlike my other dreams of Erik, this one was perfectly peaceful, albeit its lack of action or conversation.

I turn over, and I am greeted with more pleasant softness of the covers. I have turned away from the window, and the darkness is lovely and comforting. By and by, I hear a whisper, and a hand gently touches my shoulder.

'Madame?'

The voice is not Raoul's; it is older and vaguely familiar. I struggle to the surface of wakefulness, wondering who on earth could be in my bedchamber. Apparently Raoul is here, too, for I hear his voice as well:

'Oh! Is she awake?' The concern in his voice makes me fully open my eyes, and I blink furiously in the daylight. There is somebody at my bedside; I pull the covers up to my collarbones in shock, horribly aware of my state of undress and the tangles in my hair. No doubt I must look a sight, in my nightclothes and rumpled locks!

It turns out that the person near me is the doctor - I recognise him now. Raoul, looking dishevelled and worried, comes into my view as he walks forward and kneels beside me, taking my hand in his. 'Oh, Christine!' he sighs. 'Thank goodness you are finally awake!'

I frown at him, fear beginning to stir within me at the shaken look on his haggard face. 'What has happened?' I ask, frightened.

Raoul glances back at Docteur Broussard, who nods.

'You have slept for three days, Christine,' Raoul tells me. 'Without waking. I would rise and find you asleep, and when I would retire for the night you would not have woken. I called the doctor as soon as I could, and we both tried to revive you. But you were so deeply unconscious that even smelling salts would not wake you...then last night you almost left us - you had nearly stopped breathing...'

I stare at him in horror as he fights back tears. Asleep for three days? But - surely I had only been asleep one night? I felt no different...my dream had been a little long, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary...

'How are you feeling, Madame la Comtesse?' asks Broussard.

'I...well...a little tired, I suppose, and perhaps ever so slightly thirsty...but apart from that, I feel nothing out of the ordinary,' I say honestly. It seems I had sunk so deeply into that beautiful dream about Erik that I had almost left this world for good. What a shame to know how close I had been to joining Erik again -

No! Why am I thinking such a selfish thought? Does my child not deserve to at least be born, at all? I must live - and be careful that this manner of deep, comatose sleeping does not happen again...

'I would advise, Madame, that you have some form of nourishment - a soup or broth would be ideal,' Broussard tells me. 'I suggest that you take it a little bit at a time; even though you are not aware of it, your system is quite fragile at the moment.'

'Very well - I shall have someone bring a broth directly,' Raoul agrees hastily, anxious to care for me. His devotion is as endearing as ever, but beneath my affection I can feel the black, coiling terror that lurks - the fear that the child I am carrying is slowly draining my health, perhaps in answer to some unspoken wish of mine to join Erik...

But I _must_ live - I _must_ cling to this fragile rope of life for as long as it takes for me to see my child born. I cannot leave my poor Raoul now, not so soon after his dear brother's demise and the huge changes in his life. He does not deserve to lose his wife _and_ child, even if it is not truly his...

I lie back on the bed, now fully roused, gently comforting Raoul when he comes to embrace me, still distressed about the events of the previous days. _He does not deserve this_. I will never let myself go again...I will stay by his side until death do us part.

'Oh, Christine,' he whispers into my hair. 'I was so afraid for you...I shall fetch Therèse...she will make you some broth.' I watch him as he rushes from the room. Oh, where is the Raoul I once knew? The ever-joyful, ever-carefree boy with bright, merry blue eyes? I know he still lives somewhere within the serious, anxiety-ridden man who has just run from the room. I know that perhaps one day that cheerful boy I knew will make a reappearence in him...

* * *

I have fought off the dreams for three more months, but as my pregnancy progresses, I become witness to some very odd manifestations about our house. Whether it is the strain of carrying a child or the mental exhaustion from trying to live in the present instead of the past, I do not know, but lately I have become increasingly aware of strange reflections in mirrors or bright surfaces, of shadows that are out of place...

I constantly see _his_ face - or his mask - wherever I look at night, and sometimes it frightens me...I feel as if I am going mad!

...perhaps I am, with all of these unexplainable sightings. The only word I can use to describe this leaden but dream-like feeling that has stolen over all I knew is _desolation_. The world suddenly seems vast but hollow, as if there is little meaning to it any more. And there we are - me, Raoul and my unborn - struggling through that empty world, desperately looking for any trace of our familiar lives.

The child inside me has slowly grown, and now I can feel its movements. It is very unnerving, and I know I will never be used to the kicking. Docteur Broussard on his latest visit was concerned at the fact that my child does not kick as much as it should, but even though his words fill me with anxiety I firmly believe that it will be born alive and healthy, for I myself have felt those rare little kicks that tell me there is life within me! What an odd notion it is, that death has spawned life, and there is at least one thing to look forward to in my truly desolate existence. Ah, if only Erik had lived longer...I find myself thinking again. It is a wish that I have made on countless occasions, but this time I fancifully make that wish because it is sad to think that Erik's child will never meet the genius himself.

I lean back upon the bench I am sitting on outdoors. How would Erik have fared, as a father? It is an oddly endearing thought, of my late mentor and husband with a child in his arms. Would he have cherished a child, or would he have been jealous of the attention it would receive from me? Would he have known how to behave around it? Most importantly: would he have _loved_ it at all? Erik had such a weakness for perfection, and I recall his horror at the thought of conceiving a child with a face like his own. But then again, was he really horrified because he would hate an ugly child...or was he horrified because he would not want a child to endure what he had endured?

I feel tears of despair rising, and I put my face in my hands. What had begun as idle wondering has now become the terrible realisation that there is so much I still do not know about Erik. To think I could have asked him, at any moment when we were together, about his life - about _him_! But now it is far too late, and I will never know anything more about him. Oh, Erik...my poor, sad Erik...

I am crying in earnest now as my old wounds are opened. Waves of despair wash through me, and I struggle to regain control of myself. I wish Raoul was here to comfort me...instead, he is once more locked inside his study, perusing yet another load of paperwork. In my current state of mind, I even long for the _maid_ to come and talk to me! I realise how lonely I am, how fearsomely alone now. I wish...

I give a sigh, irritated with myself. Enough wishing! It serves as nothing to me. I decide I should retire now, as it is getting late and the sun is beginning to -

'_...oh...!...Christine..._'

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle unpleasantly. The wind; it must be the wind. No voice could be so soft and ethereal. Audiary hallucinations are common enough in those of delicate disposition. I get up, deciding to make my way to the house as quickly as my heavy, ungainly stomach will permit. I refuse to hear any otherworldly echoes that had once haunted me in the weeks after...after...

A sharp gasp passes from me as I see it, there in the window, as vague as any reflection can be: a dark, hazy outline against the glass, then a flash of a white mask and two golden eyes. I do not even have time to reassure myself it is only the moon, for my body is frozen with the jolt of terror that suddenly seized me. The shock of seeing this reflection, or apparition, or _whatever_ it was, is so great that my fear turns into pure, tangible pain that ripples through me, causing me to cry out and drop abruptly to my knees. Horrified as I shudder in pain upon the damp grass, I realise what is happening to me.

'No...no...' I sob, curling myself up. 'No...not _now_...no...'

Something terrible occurs to me; what if this is not a real birth, but a _miscarriage_, brought on by the tension of the past weeks and the sudden shock I just had? I am terrified and in undescribable pain, all alone in the garden. I pray that my child is still alive, even though I have not felt it move for quite some while. I cry out into the rapidly darkening garden, my call broken by the waves of pain stealing over me. I try hard not to scream out loud in my agony, but it is getting harder. The pain suddenly alleviates, and I breathe again, panting and wheezing and sobbing. I have never known pain like this, in all my life! Is this normal? I have always understood that childbirth is quite an ordeal, but I had never thought it would be so unbearable...

Desperation takes over when the pain subsides a little. I am relatively far from the house, and I have no idea whether anybody has heard me. It is dark now, and I would be surprised if anybody could even _see_ me. I cry again as the pain returns, worse than ever -

'Christine! Christine, what is it?' Raoul has, by some miracle, heard me; he rushes to me as fast as he can.

'Raoul!' I sob, clinging to him stiffly. 'I...it's too early...it's far too early...' I cannot tell him what I think is happening; I cannot tell him that my body may now be rejecting the child we have both worked so hard to accept. I am unable to say that there is a chance that the child I have been anticipating may be dead. Raoul takes my hand, holds me to him briefly; he understands.

'Therèse!' he yells back to the indistinct figure whom I can see has followed him out. 'Fetch the Docteur Broussard, quickly!'

He hauls me to my feet, and my last memory is of his strong, supporting arms around me before I lose consciousness.

* * *

The birth is terrible. I have barely regained my senses when I am told by the midwife the doctor has brought with him to push as hard as I can. I am tired, and the pain has made me light-headed. Raoul, from what I can gather, has been firmly ousted from the room, partially because he appeared ready to faint himself at the sight of the blood that was now staining the crisp white sheets. I cry out and I sob, for there are no words to express the agony that grips me now. It is not fire, now, that is lodged within my womb, but a solid block of ice that burns and will not leave me. I do not _wish_ it to leave me, so early, but my hateful body seems determined to be rid of it. I want to die - I would rather die than see the truth, that this hard labour and the love that Erik showed me in that precious moment so long ago has come to nothing, and my child is born dead. I want my baby to live, and I despise this horrible state of ambiguity - the fact that I _do not know_ whether or not my child is alive!

'Madame, you must keep breathing, and do not faint, whatever you do,' the midwife told me, bringing up a fresh, raw sob from my throat. 'You are nearly there.'

My fists clench about the bedclothes; I seem to no longer have a body...it is as if I have become a soul trapped in a white-hot cage of pure, unrelenting pain. Tears blur my vision - the child will not leave me! No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try...I cannot do this - I will never be able to do this. The back of my neck tingles again as welcome darkness begins to creep in around the edge of my vision -

'_Christine Daaé!_'

My eyes widen suddenly in shock as I hear it. His voice! His very voice! My mind screams back to him, my entire soul crying out his name in agonised despair...a tremor passes through me, locking my limbs as that single echo shouts out at me from the place I cannot go. The midwife's heightening encouragement becomes distant, background noise, her excitement at my sudden cooperation seeming suddenly very far away from me.

Erik...it hurts me...the pain is killing me! I can already see the darkness dimming my sight...

'_Christine!_'

My eyes widen and I tense again, hardly even aware of the midwife's encouraging cries.

Erik! I hear you - I hear you almost as if you are with me, at my side! I feel your presence just as strongly as ever - I feel you beside me, above me, within my head, everywhere! If I were to let go now, you would be right next to me, and I would just have to take your hand and we would leave this world, together and -

'_CHRISTINE!_'

The deafening cry rings in my ears, and I scream, too, every muscle in my body taut. The searing rage in the voice - the rage directed at my weakness, at my will to let myself die so selfishly - the rage I deserve to be shown - overpowers me, brings me to my senses. The power and sheer force in that one word suddenly fills me, too, and I make a huge effort, forgetting the pain, forgetting all thought of giving up -

Then, a feeling of pressure being quickly released, a distinct _lightening_ sensation...

I have done it. I have given birth to my first child. I am exhausted and shaken, and I finally allow myself to collapse upon the pillow. The voice and the unsettling presence have both left me, along with the child, and I stare despondently at the ceiling with wide eyes, too tired and light-headed even to blink. All I can do is breathe, and wonder why the midwife has made no comment. I raise myself up again, trembling, rallying my strength simply to find, with grim determination, the outcome of this ordeal. The midwife's lips are pursed; a bad sign. I cannot see the child, but I know that there is something wrong with it. Dread fills me - is it deformed? Or worse still..._is it dead_? The child has made no sound, and there is no noise of a stirring infant. The midwife turns away with something small, thin and stiff in her arms. Despair threatens to rend my heart, and I know that if the child is dead, I will die too. Her face was grave when she turned, and she still has not said a word to me. The sight of the unmoving bundle in her arms is almost enough to make my world drop away once more...

Then, I hear an odd, spluttering cough, followed by a most glorious wail that fills me with such sudden relief that I begin to cry, too. The midwife turns back, an odd tool in her hand that she puts back onto the table before coming to my side with a broad smile on her face. Would she be smiling so widely if the child had inherited its father's features? It would not be so, but still I cannot bring myself to envision the mere possibility that this infant could have been born not only alive but without any facial deformity.

'_Toutes mes félicitations_, Madame la Comtesse,' she congratulates me, carefully handing me the tiny creature wrapped in a blanket. 'You have a lovely son.'

Tears of joy and wonderment spill down my cheeks as I gaze at the little boy cradled in my arms. This is too good to be true...the child is well and truly alive, for his mouth is open and he is bawling tremendously. I rock him gently, somewhat awkwardly as I am so unused to holding a child. Never mind; I can feel that I will have quite a lot of practice in the years to come. He seems to sense my warmth, for his wail becomes a whine, and then stops altogether. Now he looks about himself with wide eyes, as if wondering where he is. He is so fragile and tiny, his head so large for his body, as with most newborns. I gently stroke his damp, perfect cheek with my forefinger, watching him, transfixed. He reflexively turns his head to my fingers, and I am still amazed at the loveliness of his little face. He has a nose, smooth cheeks, well-shaped bones and normal, rosy lips. I know, however, that even if he had been born the spitting image of Erik, I would still have been undescribably relieved to see him alive. I stroke his downy tufts of hair - which are far darker than my own, being a shade of ebony-black in colour. I gaze at my new son, my heart filling once more with the love I have only known a couple of times in my life. It seems the profound connection I had felt with Erik was now mirrored in the bond I feel with this tiny child.

'Monsieur le Comte? You may enter now,' the midwife is saying in an almost imperious tone, finally allowing poor Raoul entry into the chamber. His face is white and pinched, and blanches even more at the sight of the blood all over the sheets. However, when he sees me smiling at the bundle in my arms, alive and well, he comes forwards bravely. I can see in his eyes that he is prepared to come face-to-face with a hideous creature but ready to smother his revulsion. His approach is somewhat tentative, but when he kneels by my side, he quickly looks at the infant wrapped in the bundle, as if anxious to get it over with. I beam at the look of pure stupefaction on his face as he stares wordlessly at the beautiful little thing I hold in my arms. I know that his first thought is that the cannot possibly be Erik's, but then he begins to search for other resemblances himself. I look too, and notice only the dark hair that distinguishes the child as Erik's. There is a hint of high cheekbones, though, and a slight hollowness of his cheeks...otherwise, he looks just like any baby. His eyes are dark, not as blue as one would expect in a newborn...perhaps he will have brown eyes? My gaze travels down to the tiny hand that has found its way out of the bundle and into the little mouth. He has fine hands, with fingers that are relatively long compared to what another child's would normally be. I can feel, from the intelligence sparkling in those dark eyes, that he will be quite a musician or artist when he is grown. _Just like his father_...

'He's so thin,' is the first thing that Raoul says after seeing his foster-son.

'May I see him?' asks Docteur Broussard, who has just entered the room. All the men appeared to have left the room, to give me some privacy. I suppose that at the time it seemed trivial, as my pain was so great I would not have cared whether they were present or not...

I reluctantly pass my son to the doctor, who sits in a chair and gently opens the bundle to reveal white flesh, and frighteningly prominent ribs and bones. I give a small gasp, and Raoul looks quite grim. Docteur Broussard listens to the infant's breathing, measures his pulse and feels the contours of the sharp bones. I can see, now, with terrible clarity, how emaciated my child really is. It appears that _something_ of Erik's has been passed on, after all...

The doctor wraps my son up again, who has just begun to object loudly at being exposed. I can see the shudders of his thin chest with every gasp between wails, just before the blankets conceal the emaciated body. He is handed to me, and Raoul and I both look at the doctor, anxious to hear his verdict.

'He is something of a sickly child,' explains the doctor heavily. 'He already has a rather rare case of pre-natal marasmus.'

'Marasmus?' repeats Raoul, worried.

'It is a case of severe protein-energy malnutrition,' says Docteur Broussard. 'This form of marasmus is rather rare, as it usually occurs prior to the age of one year. Your son may turn out to be fretful, irritable and suffer from intense hungers if the disease remains.'

I look down in despair at my poor child. 'Can it be treated?' I ask immediately.

'Fortunately, yes, it can,' the doctor tells me. 'If the symptoms _and _the complications which arise from it - such as dehydration, infections and circulatory disorders - are treated, then your son will be perfectly healthy. A little patience and good nourishment would be best for him. I will aid you if help is necessary, and I shall keep you well informed about the steps to take in treating him.'

Raoul nods, and I gently stroke the infant's fine, tufted hair. We still have hope; with Broussard's help, we have a good chance of making this child completely healthy and happy...

* * *

It is late at night, and my son has long been put into his cradle. I am writing a letter now, to my dearest Mamma, which I have not done in a while. I have so much to tell her, and I can hardly get the words down adequately. I write quickly, my ink blotting slightly upon the page:

"_My most beloved Mamma Valerius,_

_It has been a long time since I have written to you, and longer still since I have seen you. I miss you unbearably, but I am happy with my life now. I have quite a bit of news for you - some truly great news!_

_A few months ago, I became a mother - a mother, can you imagine? I now have the loveliest of little boys, whom Raoul is infinitely proud of. We had a few difficulties with our son when he was born, because he came sooner than expected and was rather thin when he arrived - but do not fret, Mamma, he is now considerably rounder than he was before. Of course, he will never be a plump baby, but he is of healthier size, considering his state at birth. I assure you he is healthy and well, thanks to the doctor's help and Raoul's valuable support._

_We have named him Charles Philippe-Martin de Chagny, and I suppose you can see that we chose his second forename in memory of Raoul's poor brother, who died in that terrible accident just before Raoul and I left Paris. Charles is a bright little boy already, and he thankfully sleeps through some nights now. He is mastering the use of his hands now, and has quite a firm grip, I can tell you!_

_Raoul is well. He was a little distant when we were first married, as it was so soon after Philippe left him, and he was still grieving. Now, however, the birth of Charles seems to have drawn us even closer together, and we are very happy._

_I, myself, am of good health too. I was slightly ill during my pregnancy - nothing to worry about - and so the doctor recommended a long break for me before Raoul and I thought of having more children. Both of us do not mind this arrangement; the birth was tiring for me, and Raoul has his hands more or less full with helping me care for Charles. I feel truly thankful that I still have Raoul by my side - I could not imagine life without him. He is truly the best husband and father I could hope for._

_I am hoping that you are well. It has been so long since we have seen each other, but I am sure we will again sometime in the future. I know you would love Charles at first sight, as I did!_

_Much love,_

_Christine de Chagny_"

I smile, and fold the letter, putting it into its envelope. I will have it posted tomorrow, that is for certain. Tiredness stealing over me now, I rise from the writing-desk and leave the room, entering my bedroom instead. It is dark inside, and all is comfortably still and silent. My feet make little sound on the carpet, and I walk over to the wardrobe, putting away my dressing-gown. I am about to turn to the bed when I change my mind and tiptoe instead to the dark cradle that sits just beside it. Smiling fondly, I peep into the cradle. Nestled beneath fine, embroidered blankets, is Charles, his eyes closed and his small chest rising and falling gently as he sleeps. His hands are outside the blankets, as he likes to put his fingers in his mouth while he is asleep. He is definitely fuller and healthier, and the danger has more or less passed for him. He looks just like any normal infant - apart from that almost mischievous spark of intelligence that flashes in his eyes now and then. Ah! his eyes...they are not the deep blue they had been at his birth. Now they are brown - at least, they would appear brown to anybody else. In fact, they are a rather interesting greenish-brown, and when a light shines on them in the right way, they seem to flash amber or a colour very near to gold...

I watch him now; I long to kiss that pale little forehead, behind which there already stirs clever little thoughts and ideas. However, I dare not risk waking him - I wish to make the most of the first night he sleeps undisturbed to rest myself. I beam at him again with a face softened with adoration, then turn away to slip between the sheets of my own bed.

As I arrive beside it, I notice that it is already occupied; a dim form lies recumberent beneath the duvet. Smiling affectionately, I slowly ease myself into bed and stroke Raoul's unruly flaxen locks, pleasantly surprised to find him in bed before me. He smiles in langorous satisfaction, opening his eyes as my hand lovingly caresses the side of his face. Even in the dark I can see the premature lines of stress and pain upon that still-youthful face, and though it saddens me, Raoul's wide grin shows me that the boy I once knew has never really gone. I kiss him as affectionately as any wife should; his eyes glint playfully and he is ready to wrestle me onto my back when I stifle my laugh and still his questing lips with a finger, silently indicating the silent cradle near us. He pouts comically, but accepts the fact that there will be no call for any physical profession of love with such a need for quiet in our bedchamber. Instead, he gathers me into his arms, nuzzling the top of my head. I wrap my arms about him contentedly, and he whispers "_Dors bien_" in my ear. I also bid him to sleep well, and together we fall asleep - all three of us sinking into slumber as peacefully as can be.


	19. Chapter 18: Release

_**A/N:**__** It's the penultimate chapter already! I know the wait was ridiculously long...my computer died and then I was sent off for a hellish month in a small mountain house in Bulgaria. Luckily, all is now well and I have managed to get my temperamental internet sorted for good (hopefully)...**_

_**Thank you to Chantal and YunaDax (I'm flattered!) for the reviews. I'm sorry I can't please all my readers... :'( But suspend disbelief! At least for two more chapters...I am only following Kay's structure of the story after all, as a change from my usual Leroux-basing, so kill me not. :)**_

* * *

With the arrival of Charles, it seems as if my days have grown brighter and more hopeful. Even though, throughout those first few weeks, I frequently woke during the night to see the hazy figure of Death leaning over the cradle, it seems that his sickly state has been almost completely cured. Now he is a considerably more healthy and vivacious infant, far less thin than he was at birth. He is stronger, and with more colour to his cheeks.

He is nearly a year old now, but he still fills me with wonder; his warm weight is so undescribably comforting in my arms, and I take great pleasure in walking about the grounds with him, to show him the beauty of the French countryside in the late afternoon. He has quite an eye for beauty, Charles does: he flails his hands in the direction of anything colourful or shiny, and handles his toys with a delicate touch. In the garden, when I sit upon a bench with him on my lap, he tries to reach up and touch the leaves of the tree behind us, which glow green beneath the rays of the setting sun. He is very observant, too, and likes to look about himself with wide, inquisitive eyes. Ah, those eyes...often I have caught the subtle tones of amber-gold in them. Would Erik's eyes have been brown or green, had he not been afflicted with his deformity?

Charles would certainly have made his father proud; he has a profound love for music, and so I often place him upon some cushions near me when I am in the drawing room, which has an old piano in it. Of course, I can only play simple tunes upon it, as I have never had any proper expertise at the instrument...and music simply does not sound the same after I have heard Erik's music...

It saddens me to think that poor Charles only has my slow, hesitant piano melodies to listen to, when I myself had been given the privelege of hearing music in its most exuberantly beautiful of forms. If my dear little Charles could only hear what music I had heard...then he would not listen so rapturously to the comparitively awful, stuttering pieces that I play! He sits so still by the piano, watching me so attentively as I strive to perfect my piano playing simply to give him a taste of real music. Again I wish ardently that Charles could have met his father in person...if Charles had been conceived earlier, then perhaps he would indeed have been able to have a true father for at least a little while. But of course, had Charles come into the world earlier, then Raoul would have been heartbroken. Would I be so willing to trade Raoul's brave peace of mind for a short reunion between Charles and Erik?

Well, what was done was done, and I can do nothing to change it. Only the future I can still change...only the future I can make better for Erik's son.

As my fingers inexpertly weave the pattern of notes to delight the child sitting near me, I decide that this is not enough. I can still sing - my voice has always been the only instrument I have fully mastered. I change melodies, and begin to sing a small song to the accompaniment of the piano. Charles is as silent as ever, and I know that he is listening with all his might. My piano-playing is hesitant, so I make up for it by using my voice more expressively. It feels curiously uplifting, to be singing again! I had always thought that I would never sing again, for the memories were too painful for me to use my voice in such a way. However, it seems as if I was wrong.

By the third verse of the song, I become increasingly aware of something beside me. I frown, and pause in my singing to look, then my music stops altogether in shock.

'Oh! Charles...'

To my extreme surprise, I see that young Charles has, by some feat of hand-and-knee coordination, left his little nest of cushions and struggled all the way across the floor to me. He now sits beside me, making a truly determined effort to climb the piano leg even though he is unable to stand properly. Upon hearing me say his name, he halts his endeavour and looks up at me, as if bewildered to hear the music stop.

'Bah,' says Charles, to break the silence with a question. He fixes me with an expectant gaze.

'Oh, very well,' I sigh, and lift him up onto my lap. He coos happily, his soft, sweet-smelling hair tickling my face. I frown at him curiously. 'Since when have you learnt to crawl, young man?'

I am answered only by a random thumping of keys. Charles obviously has found the keyboard of the piano more worthy of his attention than my questions. I laugh as he presses more keys in a resonant discord, his brow furrowed with fierce concentration. He looks so serious, as he spreads his arms far apart to try and reach the highest and lowest note at the same time.

'Use one finger, Charles - just start with one finger,' I advise as he mashes ten keys at once. He obeys me, and begins to press different notes using only one thin little finger. He grows bored of this, and is about to begin pounding his palms against the keys again to make a stronger, more interesting noise, when I take his hand in mine and press his finger up and down a small set of notes, making a nice little tune. This enthrals him and, to my delight, he finds those notes again when I let his hand go and presses them in _exactly the same sequence as before_! Then, he surprises me further by playing the pattern of notes again and again, before playing them in different order and in a descending scale. My breath has caught in my chest; never before have I seen or heard anything like this! He cannot even stand upright and yet here he is, memorising a small tune of four notes and making his own variations on it. His rhythm is not very good, and he sometimes presses two notes at once by mistake, but his playing is still prodigious to me. Soon my own hand reaches up of its own will and begins to improvise a tentative bass line to his four-note tune. _Do-re-mi-so_, _so_-_mi-re-do_...I begin to sing his tune, bursting out into peals of laughter when he changes the order of notes without warning, throwing me off. He begins to laugh too, a merry chuckle that only an infant can produce. Oh, how lovely his laugh is! We play our duet for a long while, until Charles joins in my singing, babbling incoherent syllables more or less in time with me. I can tell that he is already very musical indeed. At the back of my mind, I wonder: was Erik like this, as a child? Something tells me, however, that he most certainly did not play duets with his mother.

'Christine?'

I turn at the sound of the incredulous voice, and Charles turns too.

'Raoul!'

'Pa-paaa!' cries Charles cheerfully, forgetting the piano and getting ready to launch himself from my lap. I manage to catch hold of him, and he bounces vigorously on my knee instead. Raoul approaches us, and a small smile plays across his lips at the sight of Charles' eagerness to greet him.

'That was a nice song the two of you were singing,' Raoul laughs, leaning an elbow against the polished top of the piano.

'Papa! Papa!' yells Charles, still excited, but a little annoyed that his demands are ignored. He waves his hands at Raoul, who looks at him pensively.

'He wants you to hold him, I think,' I say. Charles has always loved Raoul, and always greets him enthusiastically after his long periods of absence in the study.

For a second, I fear that Raoul will refuse to hold him, but then I realise I should never have doubted, as he smiles broadly and reaches out, scooping the eager little boy from my lap and into his arms. Charles gives a cry of delight, showing pink gums that have a hint of a tooth growing on the left side. I beam at both of them, but I think to myself how noticeably different the two of them are when they are together. Charles' mop of black curls contrasts strikingly with Raoul's fair hair, his green-brown eyes at odds with Raoul's blue gaze. Charles has the beginnings of high cheekbones, and bears little resemblence to his "father". I dread the day when he himself will realise it...

'The little tune you were playing was lovely, Christine,' Raoul says, as Charles gives him a rather sloppy kiss on the forehead, his little fingers patting Raoul's hair with clumsy affection.

'Oh - that was not my tune,' I tell him. 'That was Charles playing, if you can believe it! I only provided the bass line.'

Raoul laughs. 'Stop your teasing, _ma chèrie_!' he chuckles. 'Charles is not even one year old!' His laugh gradually falters, and then he looks at me in surprise. 'No...are you being serious? You are, aren't you!'

'Yes,' I affirm it, without question. Raoul's smile is gone as he looks upon the small prodigy that is currently clinging to him like a limpet. I know that he sees, now, the part of Erik in Charles manifesting itself. He sees that Charles is undeniably the child of another man, who possessed the same magnificent talents. Is that fear in his eyes, now? It cannot be...Charles will never grow to be a man as threatening to him as Erik. Does he not know that?

The moment passes, though, and Raoul's broad grin returns, as radiant as ever. He holds Charles high above his head with a triumphant laugh. Charles adores this, and screams happily at these attentions.

'Ah, what a clever little boy you are, indeed!' Raoul praises him, as Charles waves his arms and legs, high in the air. I can only join in their laughter.

'Don't make him sick!' I warn, as Raoul holds him high. He takes my advice and embraces Charles instead, before handing him - rather hastily - back to me. Charles grumbles, but his protestations are quelled by an affectionate pat on the head from Raoul.

'I'll be listening from my study,' Raoul says, and then leaves the room again. I watch him go, with an inward sigh. Poor Raoul...has he truly been broken forever?

* * *

A week has passed since Charles' triumph on the piano, and now I wake in the middle of the night to find that Raoul is not in bed. His nightshirt is still folded neatly upon the bedside chair; he has not touched it since yesterday morning. What can be keeping him up so late? Frowning and concerned, I leave the warmth of the sheets and walk out of the bedroom in search of my husband. There is only one place he is sure to be: the study.

I do not need a candle, for the moonlight shines upon the ground enough for me to see my way along the familiar corridors. I turn the corner and arrive before the door of Raoul's study. After knocking softly, I open the door -

It is empty and dark, and there is no sign of Raoul anywhere. I frown. Where on earth can he be, if he is not in his study? I turn away and close the door, then decide to search downstairs. As I descend the staircase, I become aware of a faint glow in the corridor below. A room is lit, presumably where Raoul is. I approach the door of the drawing room, from which faint golden light spills from the cracks. Upon opening it, I see that Raoul is indeed there, sitting at a small table beside a dim oil lamp. I enter the room quietly. He is hunched over the table, a bottle of something strong from the drinks cabinet in his right hand, a three-quarters-empty glass next to it.

'Raoul?'

When he looks up, his face is drawn, made years older by the pain lining it, and his blue eyes are bloodshot with tears and spirits. He appears utterly miserable, which distresses me to no end.

'Raoul, what is it?' I ask him softly, coming to his side and carefully drawing up a chair near him. He looks so fragile that I can barely summon the courage to touch him for fear of him shattering.

He gives a sigh, pushing lank strands of fair hair back, fiercely brushing away a treacherous tear that threatens to spill from his eye. He does not want to cry in front of me, even though his face is already stained and wet with the tears he refuses to shed now. The smell of alcohol stings my nose, almost making my eyes water too.

Raoul looks back up at me, an odd smile on his face - half mocking his own tears, half trying to hide his sorrow. He takes a breath and shakily says: 'It's the twenty-sixth today.'

'Yes...?' I say, prompting him to continue, for I do not know what is so terrible about today.

Raoul turns his glistening eyes to stare into the darkness. 'It...it would have been his birthday, today,' he tells me. For a second I wonder who "he" is, but then I realise...Philippe, his poor brother. Raoul's wavering smile of affectionate recollection trembles. 'He would have been forty-one. My, how I teased him when he turned forty...! We laughed together about it so much...' He gives a shaky sigh. 'It's odd, to think that a year ago today we were together. I never would have imagined that in a year's time Philippe would be gone forever...' His features finally crumple, tears of grief spilling down his cheeks.

'Oh, Raoul...' I murmur consolingly, coming forwards and wrapping my arms around him. He gives a shuddering sigh, letting me hold him and I gently take the bottle out of his slack hand. 'This is not the way to grieve, dearest Raoul,' I tell him with gentle concern. 'You'll feel terrible in the morning.'

'I feel terrible _now_,' he replies, but allows me to put the spirits back into the cabinet. I come back and hold him close again, for his expression is so wretched I feel a familiar tug of sympathy in my heart - an emotion I once felt so long ago for another. I stroke Raoul's unkempt golden hair, kissing him chastely upon the forehead creased with lament.

'I'm sorry,' I whisper, feeling his loss, understanding the hollow suffering he felt. To lose a brother...

At the same time, I feel an odd sense of guilt. It had been poor, mad Erik - _my_ poor, mad Erik - who had brought about the untimely end of Raoul's closest friend, guardian and brother. It had been the man I had shared a strange love with who had caused this pain to heap itself upon dear Raoul. My childhood friend and current husband had been changed from a carefree boy to a sober, melancholy man.

I remember Erik's bitter, fathomless hatred towards Raoul, the hatred brought on by their rivalry. He detested Raoul because he was everything Erik was not: handsome, an old friend of mine, high-born, surrounded by friends...he wanted Raoul to suffer, to suffer as he had all his life. Now, it seems as if he has acheived this; the mental strain upon Raoul - the strain of having fought for his life, of having lost his brother, of having to tolerate another man's child under his roof - is giving him no end of pain.

But Erik had tried to take back some of the evil he had done in his liftetime, as he lay dying under the Opera house. He had shown great repentence for his actions...he had, in his own, indirect way, begged for forgiveness. With all humility, he had wanted Raoul to know he regretted everything...

'Erik was sorry, too,' I say, in a voice so soft it is scarcely heard. 'He...he wanted me to tell you that he was sorry about what happened to your brother.'

Raoul's body stiffens at the sound of Erik's name, but he says nothing. He suspects - or knows now - that Erik was indeed the one who killed Philippe. Then, I hear him murmur:

'I could never forgive him...with all due respect, I simply could not,' he replies heavily. 'But I have no bitterness towards him. He is dead, and there is nothing gained from hating a dead man.'

I nod silently in acceptance. I know that the pain is too great for Raoul to forgive and forget, but I am content to know that Raoul does not harbour any strong ill feelings towards Erik. It is a start, and in time I know that Raoul will, eventually and unknowingly, forgive Erik.

'Come,' I say softly to Raoul. 'You are very tired...let's go to bed.'

Like a weary, submissive child, Raoul nods and together we leave the drawing room in darkness, where the sighs of the night still sound, quietly and distantly.

* * *

Looking back now, I have no doubt that young Julien Gustave de Chagny came as something very much of a surprise. Before then, I had never given any thought about more children; following the perilous nature of my first pregnancy, I would never have considered myself capable of safely bearing another child. I had not contemplated the idea of having a second child, as it seemed so threatening to the already delicate balance of our slowly-recovering household. And yet when Charles was nearing five years of age, along came another little boy - my second son, and Raoul's first.

Julien looked so startlingly like his father, that during the first days following his birth, Raoul would spend hours simply staring at him in joyful shock. I never regretted having Julien, for it seems that he was the one who finally made Raoul leave his hermetical station in his study and come out to spend time with his children. Soon he began to smile and laugh again, like he always had before he had made that passage into sombre maturity. At first I had thought that, seeing as he was truly Raoul's son, Julien would be the one given all the attention from his father while Charles was carefully ignored. However, Raoul fortunately proved me wrong; he was determined to love both boys equally, and so that was precisely what he did. As Julien and Charles grew, the three of them would play rowdy games in the nursery, or run about the garden together. I would watch them with pride and fondness, laughing at their antics. Raoul seemed to be very much a child again, happily cavorting on the lawn with the two boys - Charles galloping around faster and faster with his stick-like legs while Julien, rosy-cheeked, made valiant efforts to chase him until Raoul swung him onto his shoulders to carry him squealing in delight after Charles. Finally, after all of the strife, we were a family...what had meant to tear us all apart had actually brought us together, and now it seemed our days were less dark.

Just as Charles had idolised Raoul, Julien came to idolise Charles. He would copy him incessantly, and on many an occasion Charles would come grumpily to me with little Julien in tow to complain that he was intruding upon his piano practice. Charles took his music very seriously, and, bit by bit, I began to notice that his level had improved so much that already he had passed me, and was playing even better than I ever had! He ransacked the house in search of harder and harder pieces of music to attempt, constantly seeking self-perfection.

'Charles, you play so well!' I once complimented him proudly, stroking his coal-black curls. But he had only frowned at me.

'I'm not good _enough_, though,' he told me.

'Not good enough? You are better than _me_ at the piano! Of course you are good enough...' Then I frowned. 'What do you mean by "enough"?'

He gave a sigh, picking at the hem of his shirt. 'The music I hear in my head...it doesn't...I can't get it to play on the piano,' he explained with difficulty. 'It sounds nice in my head but I can't play it as good as it should be.'

So I had patted him on the curly head and reassured him that one day, I was _certain_ he would be able to play the music he wanted to, and to compose the tunes he imagined. He had been comforted by this, and had proceeded to take Julien on another search for difficult sheet music.

Ah, sweet Julien! Raoul would often tell me, in a soft, reminiscent tone, that Julien and Charles reminded him of how he was with his own elder brother, except their age difference had been greater. I found the sight of Julien stirring memories, too; whenever I put him to bed at night, I would kiss the top of his head, from which sprung tight curls that reminded me so much of my father's...Raoul and I had given him the second name of Gustave for a reason. His smile even brought back recollections of my father's jaunty grins, just as Charles' prodigious piano-playing made me hear echoes of his late father's own very particular style.

In fact, Charles' aforementioned prodigious piano-playing was so prodigious that very soon he was performing in concerts before of larger and larger audiences. I attended every last one of those precious first public appearances of his, and gave him as much encouragement as I could whenever he felt nervous. I recall those concerts of his, where he would perform with a selection of other children - all older than he was. He looked so small, peaky and pale beside the large piano, and his white face, pinched with anxiety, would always subconciously search for me in the crowd. He was always so nervous in front of many people, my Charles was...but when he began to play, his tense limbs would begin to relax, and soon he would have forgotten about his nervousness entirely as he lost himself in his music. The audience always loved him - on more than one occasion, he would even receive a standing ovation! Charles made me so proud, especially when I saw his new friends and the parents of his new friends congratulating him on his performance. It made me undescribably happy, to see him making new friends, and, above all else, _fitting in_. He was living the life that his father had been denied...

More music and laughter-filled years passed, until, quite unexpectedly once again, Raoul and I were gifted with yet another. After the fourth night we had been woken by a squalling baby, we had both firmly agreed that three children were more than enough. Our third and final child was a dear little girl, and we named her Marie-Louise. Charles, aged eleven by then, and Julien, who was halfway through his sixth year, both behaved very well around her, being careful not to make too much noise around the house while she was asleep. Charles even made the immense sacrifice of keeping away from the piano during his new sister's irregular periods of sleep. All in all, we were still as happy as we ever had been.

Then, around the time when Marie-Louise was old enough to sit up by herself, Raoul and I received a letter that we were not expecting.

* * *

'It's from Adèline and Charlotte,' Raoul told me as we sat in the sunny drawing room.

'Who?'

'My sisters - my two sisters whom I spent several years with before going to Paris with Philippe,' he replied, smoothing out the creases in the letter he held.

'Oh, really? Are they well?'

'It would seem so,' he said, stepping over Marie-Louise who sat playing on the rug, and seating himself upon the couch opposite me. 'They were quite affected by...by what happened to Philippe, but they are more or less past it now, as am I. They're writing to say that they are travelling our way and would very much like to see their nephews - and, of course, their new little niece.'

I had not properly met Raoul's elder sisters before; I had only been loosely acquainted with Philippe. I did not recall having seen them during our childhood days in Bretagne...but of course, Raoul had been living with his father then, and they had probably had better things to do than tail their smaller brother everywhere. Of course, they were much older than he was, being closer to Philippe in age...Raoul had confessed to me that the two of them had spoiled him quite a bit when he was living with them after their father's demise. I was eager to meet Raoul's two sisters...

'Well, they shall come, by all means,' I said. 'It would be nice to finally meet them.'

Raoul smiled. 'I have missed them somewhat,' he confided. 'They should be arriving sometime next week, they said...'

* * *

Exactly one week later, on a particularly sunny Tuesday, Raoul's sisters arrived at our home in the countryside. The guest bedrooms had long been prepared, and, as luck would have it, the boys and little Marie-Louise had managed to keep their clothes relatively clean.

I was very happy to meet my sisters-in-law, and they seemed to be quite charming ladies. Adèline, the eldest of them, was in her late thirties, and bore quite some resemblance to Philippe in the way she held herself. Her blonde hair was finely pinned up, and she wore a dress that went perfectly with her eyes. At first I was slightly intimidated by her almost haughty gaze, but soon I realised the haughtiness was always dissimilated by her warm smile.

Charlotte, also in her thirties, had hair of a more tawny lustre, and her round, fair face was set off by her lively blue eyes. Her expressions were more reminiscent of Raoul's - or were his reminiscent of hers? To my delight, I found myself recognising Julien's dimples on her cheeks, a feature perhaps inherited from Raoul's father or mother. I warmed to both sisters quite quickly.

When Charles entered, with Julien hiding behind him, the two of them appeared quite shy of their aunts, never having met them before.

'Come and say hello, now,' I coaxed Charles and Julien. '_Dis bonjour, Julien_...'

Julien crept out from behind his brother and promptly stuck a finger in his mouth. 'Bn'jr,' he murmured around it.

'Oh, bless him!' cooed Charlotte.

'He looks so much like you, Raoul,' remarked Adèline fondly. 'I think he may have your nose.'

Julien touched his nose self-consciously, finger still firmly in his mouth.

'I take it this is young Charles, here,' Adèline said, her attention moving to Charles, who was hovering awkwardly beside his brother.

'Yes,' I affirmed. 'This is Charles.'

She nodded, and for a terrible, tense second, I thought she or Charlotte was going to say something about him - about how little he resembled Julien or even Raoul. Charles seemed to stand out more than ever beside Julien, with his mop of black, wavy hair and fine-boned face. However, thankfully the aunts seemed to have dropped the subject of parent-child resemblances, and the moment passed.

'He's a handsome lad,' smiled Adèline. 'And I hear he plays music?' At the mention of music, Charles' eyes automatically brightened.

'Oh, yes, he is extremely talented,' Raoul said, with surprising pride. 'A few weeks ago he won a little trophy for his piano-playing.'

'He's learning his third instrument now - the violin,' I mentioned. Charles loved his violin, just as much as any other instrument he owned. Sometimes when he played I would hear, in his music, my poor, long gone father...memories would come back of my childhood, of the songs I sang to the tune of Father's violin, of Raoul's first tremulous notes on my father's grand instrument...

'I should very much like to hear him play something,' Charlotte said, beaming at her nephew. So, hastened by an approving nod from Raoul, he ran off and fetched his violin. He played for us a lovely, bright tune that I had not heard him play before...it was a complex, quick tune that made Adèline's eyes widen and Charlotte clap her hands delightedly. His bow danced merrily, almost effortlessly over the strings, and one would think at first sight that he had been learning the instrument for more than just half a year.

When he finished, he was met with much applause, and he gave a little bow, full of smiles. From a nest of cushions on a couch, the forgotten Marie-Louise made her presence known again by yelling out: 'BRAVO Charlot! BRAVO!' Charles smiled bashfully at her use of her pet name for him, and I shook my head at her.

'It is not becoming for a young lady to bellow, Marilou,' I told her with mock sternness, then picked her up.

'Oh, I didn't see she was here - she's been so quiet!' Charlotte remarked. 'Hello, Marie-Lou.'

Little Marie-Louise frowned rather rudely at her aunt, and anxiously said to me: 'Mama?'

'This is your Tante Charlotte,' I explained to her patiently.

'Charlot?'

'No, _Charlotte_.'

'Charlot.'

'Oh, never mind...'

'Bravo, Charlot!' She waved a hand and Charles, who was packing away his violin.

'And this is your Tante Adèline,' I told Marie-Louise, to get her full attention again.

'What a darling!' Adèline said with a broad smile. Marie-Lou let herself be cooed over for a while, then grew impatient, wriggling in my arms.

'She's a little tired,' I told them. 'I should be putting her to bed...'

'_Non_, Maman!' Marie-Louise protested adamantly, her little face frowning in outrage at being removed from the company.

'Come now, Marilou, let us not have a scene.' With some difficulty, I managed to take her upstairs, promising that she would be able to play downstairs all she liked after her afternoon nap. As I tucked her in, I gave a small sigh of contentment. I had been somewhat dreading the first meeting with my sisters-in-law, but now I felt quite happy that I had been able to make their acquaintances. They seemed to be intelligent, cultured women who did not appear to mind my humble background. I went back downstairs feeling much more optimistic than I had been that morning...

* * *

The sisters spent a truly delightful week at our home; they loved to walk in our gardens and, in the late afternoons, take tea upon the veranda. In the evenings, Charles would awe them with his music, Julien would talk freely with them, and little Marie-Lou would be happily sitting upon one of their laps. All too soon, though, it was time for them to make their journey back to their own home - but not without repeatedly promising us to come by and visit us again!

With Adèline and Charlotte gone, a different sort of peace descended upon our home...a sort of laziness that kept me in bed for longer in the mornings, and made me spend the warm afternoons outside reclining in a chair. I felt delightfully sluggish and relaxed for some reason...Raoul and the children did not seem to indulge in the peace as deeply as I did. Perhaps it was only I who felt it...perhaps I had finally abandoned myself to this happy life, relinquishing all worries and revelling in the tranquillity of pure stresslessness.

The past was behind us, the future was but a sunny glow up ahead, and the present was divine, worth living for every moment. I had a caring husband by my side, three brilliant children...

For the first time since my childhood, I found that I felt perfectly free and truly, wholly content.


	20. Epilogue: A Sense of Déjà Vu

_**A/N:**__** Well, here's the final chapter! Looking back, this whole fic has taken absurdly long to write...never mind, it's all here now! I hate to leave a fic hanging. Thanks to everybody who faved this fic, and especially to everybody who told me what they thought!**_

_**Watch out, we have a change to third person here...**_

* * *

Several more years passed. The De Chagny family enjoyed a quiet life out in their comfortable countryside home...it seemed as if the pain and burdens Christine and Raoul had endured in the past were being compensated for now, in later years. The close of the nineteenth century was drawing near, and the world was changing, growing. But the world's progress no longer seemed to matter to them - especially to Christine. The new world was a place for their children, who would discover it readily for themselves. Christine was too delightfully weary to care about it...

At first Christine's contented laziness seemed nothing but a perfectly normal show of happiness and peacefulness to Raoul; he never knew that her health was ebbing until it had reached a critical level. She now could not leave her bed, so weak and heavy were her limbs, but she told him calmly as he sat clasping her hand at her bedside that she was not scared about this, and even felt prepared for what was sure to come. Raoul was powerless to help her - the doctor had told him there was nothing to do. He had quietly informed him that his poor, lovely young wife would slip away peacefully and painlessly in her sleep, and not suffer at all. She might not suffer, but Raoul would...it seemed as if Christine's life - so full of intense emotions through losing her father, falling prey to a Phantom and reaching the very heights of musical talent - had made her weary, so weary that soon she would just close her eyes and sleep forever. Raoul hadn't had the heart to say anything to the children; however, they seemed to sense something was not quite right, and talked in hushed voices around the house. He could barely admit the truth to himself, let alone to his children...he could not bear the thought of Christine leaving him.

But, sadly, he had no chance of stopping what had already started. He could sense within his heart of hearts that her time was near, and so he never left her bedside, wanting to savour every last second he had left of her. Christine did her best to comfort him, dreamily murmuring that he still had their children to love him, and that she would always care for him. All through the evenings they talked of everything and nothing, just like in their childhood.

One evening, Christine stared serenely at the opposite wall as she lay propped up in bed, her hand held in Raoul's, and murmured quietly with tranquil eyes: 'Do you remember much of my father's old stories, Raoul?'

'I remember some,' he replied, sadly observing the way the candlelight bathed her face in a golden glow. Her mouth gently curved at the corners and she rested her head against her right shoulder.

'I remember all of his tales,' she whispered. 'My favourite used to be the tale he told me so often...the tale of the Angel of Music...'

Raoul did not reply, not knowing what to say to this. Instead, he gently kept his hold on her hand. By and by, however, he came to notice a strange pallor creeping over her features; she appeared enraptured by something, her eyes unfocused and staring at something he could not see.

'Christine?' She did not seem to hear him. Her expression was faraway, and it was beginning to frighten him. 'Christine?'

Unable to stand it, he leapt to his feet, left the room briefly and called for the maid to summon the doctor with all haste. Immediately, he darted back into the room, only to see Christine in exactly the same state as he had left her. There was a strange light in her dilated eyes as she stared into nothingness.

'Christine, please...look at me!' Raoul begged, but she was deaf to his words.

A short while later, though, she began to speak, quite softly and gently: 'One last time? Very well, I shall do my best, I promise you...yes, I remember all you have told me - softly at the beginning, concentrate the strength in the middle...and keep my breathing right.' Raoul stared at her. Was she delirious? It seemed so; she appeared to be having a conversation with herself.

A soft smile stole over her lips. 'I am ready...from the top,then? Give me the first chord, Erik, so I may be in tune...' she murmured dreamily, then her head began to nod gently in time with a beat the horrified Raoul could not hear. Her face full of bliss, as if listening to divine music, she parted her lips, and began to sing, very softly and very beautifully, a song Raoul had once heard from somebody else, long ago...

'_Fate links thee to me for ever and a day..._' Her voice was gentle and she hardly seemed to be making an effort to sing at all; the melody just flowed from her as naturally as music ever had. She sang as she had sang in the role of Marguerite on her triumphant night so long past, only much quieter and far sweeter...he was hearing the very essence of her voice, the voice that he had heard her sing with when she had been in Bretagne with her father...

She repeated the phrase several times over, each time with a different, beautiful tune: '_Fate links thee to me for ever and a day_!'

Raoul could only listen with awed shock to the voice so sweet it brought tears to his eyes. Soon, however, her song faded gently, and came to an end. She smiled with eyes half-closed.

'You are pleased with that effort? I hope I managed to get it right...oh, but I am so tired now! I could not sing another note! Excuse me...I think I should like to rest now. _Bonsoir_...'

Christine gave a faint sigh and closed her eyes, still with a look of utter serenity on her face. Raoul was trembling and white-faced. In her delerium, it seemed to him that she had relived one of her past moments with her tutor...she had sung for him again!

As he watched, suddenly Christine's eyelids fluttered and she whispered in a voice so sincere but barely audible: '_Erik...Erik..._' She drew a small, shuddering breath - '_...Erik..._' Her eyes shut and her face relaxed as she immediately fell asleep.

The hairs rose on the back of Raoul's neck, as he looked on with tortured eyes. It gave him terrible chills to hear her say _his_ name again - almost as if he was in the room!

There was a light knock on the door, and the doctor entered. 'Ah, Docteur...' Raoul said, relieved, getting to his feet. 'She was in delerium for a while, but I think she is over it now...'

The doctor nodded and went over to Christine's side. Carefully he checked her breathing and put two fingers on her fragile wrist to measure her pulse, then lifted an eyelid to look at her eye. Raoul hovered nearby, anxiously. Then, the doctor straightened up, his face grave. 'I am sorry to say this, but Madame is no longer with us.'

* * *

Adèline tossed in her bed. It was hard for her to sleep tonight. She could not stop thinking about Raoul...her poor brother had lost his most beloved sibling, and now his wife had been taken from him too. As soon as she and Charlotte had heard the awful news, they had hastened to go to see him and help him in such a time of difficulty. Now Adèline was spending her eighth night in her brother's house, feeling considerable pain on his part. The boy didn't deserve any of this...he was far too young to suffer such a loss! His children, too, had barely grown up...

Adèline jumped as a frantic knocking sounded at her door. She leapt out of bed and opened it. In stumbled Raoul, his hair dishevelled, his face ashen and his eyes wild. 'Raoul! _Qu'est-ce qui se passe_?' she asked him.

'It's h-horrible!' he cried, clutching at his arms, his features contorted in agony. 'I haven't s-slept a single night - not a single night! I can't stop th-thinking of her...of what she said...' He began to sob violently. 'He still has her! I thought she was s-safe with m-me, but he had her all along...her soul belonged to him, and he never let her go! Her last words were f-for _him_, not me! His name...his name was on her lips as she died! Oh, the wretch! I know h-he has her w-with him, even in death! She is probably with him now, a slave again to his ghastly music, singing for him for the rest of eternity! Oh-h, I c-can't _stand_ it...oh, God -'

He keeled over onto the floor right in front of her. Although she had not understood a word of what he had been ranting about, it was evident that the poor young man was severely traumatised. What had caused him to become so hysterical?

* * *

It was a sad thing, but Raoul's fit, brought on by the horror of his wife's dying moments, was one he never fully healed from. In fact, his partial recovery was only followed by a second plummet into fever and ill health, from which he did not recover. Much to the grief of the entire family, the young Comte soon surrendered his soul and left the world of the living, as prematurely as his late wife. Charlotte and Adèline sombrely witnessed the early extinguishing of youth, and readily made sure the children had a home with them. The children, too, had been severely affected - Charles, who was looking more and more like a young man every day, was unable to play any music for days on end, and Julien and Marie-Louise were haunted by their loss. However, they were drawn closer together than they every had been, and felt thankful that they still had two loving aunts to care for them and protect them.

For anyone who had known Raoul and Christine's past, they may have felt an odd, haunting sense of déjà vu, for history was repeating itself. It seemed as if it was the old days of the Opéra again, and Christine had been taken away once more by Erik where men could not go. Of course, Raoul never wanted to relinquish his dearest, and so, just like he had done so long ago, he had bravely followed them - only this time into death. Was Raoul now trying to free Christine from Erik's clutches in an afterlife? One could only speculate.

And so the tale between the three is never finished...Erik will always be drawing Christine's pure soul towards him, and Raoul will always be following, ready to win her back again...

The Angel sees, the Angel knows.

_**The End.**_


End file.
